FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY    HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 

mob 


FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE, 


OTHER   POEMS. 


BY     THOMAS     M  A  C  K  E  L  L  A  R, 


AUTHOR   OF    "DROPF1NG3    FROM   THE    HHAS:. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  CAREY  AND  HART 

1847. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

THOMAS     MACKELLAR, 

in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  Eastern 

District  of  Pennsylvania. 


T.    K.    &   P.    G.   COLLINS,    PRINTERS, 
No.  1  Lodge  Alley. 


TO 


LAWRENCE    JOHNSON,    ESQ 


OF    PHILADELPHIA, 


AS     A.     T53rtUONIA.il     OF     ESTEEM     FOR     HIS    TALENTS     AND     VIRTUES, 


£l)is    ttolume 


K ESPECTFCILY      INSCRIBED. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/tamsfortOOmack 


PREFACE. 


The  leading  poem  in  this  volume  may  be 
thought  somewhat  desultory.  But  verse-making 
is  not  the  chief  pursuit  of  my  life.  I  often  fancy 
that  I  am  like  a  traveller  over  a  long  and  sometimes 
rugged  road,  who,  when  the  mid-heaven  sun  beats 
hotly  down,  or  when  the  darkness  of  night  ap- 
proaches, lays  his  burden  aside  and  rests,  and  sings 
a  merry  or  a  pensive  song,  that  perchance  touches 
the  heart  of  a  fellow-pilgrim,  and  cheers  him  on 
the  way.  If  this  prove  to  be  true,  I  shall  feel  that 
I  have  not  vainly  sung. 


VI  PREFACE. 

From  critics  I  fear  no  injustice.  The  deservings 
of  my  verses  have  been  scarcely  commensurate 
with  the  courtesy  with  which  they  have  been  ever 
greeted.  T  claim  no  farther  merit  than  that  I  have 
written  with  all  simplicity,  and  according  to  ability 
and  opportunity. 

Thus  much  from 

T.  McK. 


CONTENTS 


TAM'S  FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE. 

Canto  I. 
Canto  II. 
Canto  III. 
Canto  IV. 
Canto  V. 
Canto  VI. 


PAGE 

13 
31 
41 
61 
83 
99 


DOMESTIC  POEMS. 

A  Peep  into  the  Parlour, 
Our  William, 
The  Child  is  Lost, 
The  Newly  Come, 
Lullaby, 


115 

119 
122 
125 
127 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Sick  Babe,                  .... 

129 

The  Thoughts  Dwell  where  the  Heart  is, 

130 

The  Dinner  Hour,            .... 

131 

Father  is  Coming,             .... 

134 

After  Tea,             .... 

135 

The  Sleeping  Wife,          .... 

138 

Our  Little  Garden,            .... 

140 

Sister  Louise,                     .... 

143 

Matrimony,           -.---. 

145 

Juvenile  Reminiscence,   -             -             -             - 

148 

A  Day  with  the  Influenza,            - 

149 

From  my  Pillow  to  the  Editor  of  the  Saturday 

Gazette,    -             -             -             -             - 

152 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

The  Reaper's  Return,      -  -  -  -  157 

A  Re  very  in  an  Ancient  Potter's-Field,    -  -  1G7 

The  Beautiful  Land  and  its  Sentry  Grim,  -  175 

The  Howling  Storm  and  the  Wondrous  Calm,  -  177 

" The  Good  Die  Early,"'  -  -  -  -  ISO 

Another  Gone,     -  -  -  -  -  183 

Early  Wed— Early  Dead,  -  -  -  184 

"Why  are  ye  Fearful  V'  -  -  -  -  186 

"  To  Will  and  to  Do  of  His  Own  Good  Pleasure,"  189 

Widowed  and  Childless,  -  -  -  191 

Let's  Sit  Down  and  Talk  Together.  -  -  194 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

To  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Griswold,       ...  196 

Fanny  Forester,                 -             -             -             -  197 

The  Coining  of  Spring,   -              -             -              -  198 

'•May  I  Come  up?-'         -             -             -             -  199 

Our  Autumn  Weather,     ....  200 

The  Early  Ice,     -             -             -             -             -  202 

Where  is  the  Apple-Man  !  203 

The  Children  of  the  City,             -             -             -  205 

The  Doom  of  the  Printer,             ...  207 

The  Printer's  Sabbath,     -             -             -              -  211 

The  Editor  Sat  in  his  Sanctum,                  -              -  212 


TAM'S  FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE 


TAM  INTRODUCED  TO  THE  READER. 

Most  gentle  Reader  !     Tam's  a  friend  of  mine — 

A  bosom-friend:  I  long  have  known  him  well: — 
I  pray  thy  grace  and  courtesy  benign 

While  he  in  words  of  verity  shall  tell 
The  story  of  his  travels.     Sit  with  him 

An  evening  hour;  and  should  his  strain  bedim 
Thy  tender  eye,  or  cause  thy  heart  to  swell, 

It  may  be,  Reader !  also  thou  shalt  find 

Refreshment  in  it  for  a  thirsty  mind, 
And  joy  with  thee  a  frequent  guest  shall  dwell. 

1  stand  aside,  like  one  who  bears  the  bowl 
Whereof  his  friends  partake;  and  if  the  draught 
Afford  delight  to  those  by  whom  'tis  quafT'd, 

A  kindred  pleasure  shall  pervade  my  soul. 

T.  McK. 


TAM'S   FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE. 


CANTO   I. 


At  Christmas  time,  when  mostly  men  are  glad, 
My  heart  grew  heavy  as  it  were  of  lead, 
And  moody  thoughts  kept  rising  in  my  head, 

Like  smoke  from  smouldering  embers.     Oh  how  sad 
My  inner  feelings  were !     "  I'll  go,"  I  said, 

"  And  see  again  the  place  where  I  was  born, 
And  where  I  had  my  schooling — where  1  shed 

A  single  bitter  tear,  like  one  forlorn, 
When  Death  stood  up  amid  our  family 
And  smote  the  roots  of  our  parental  tree. 

I'll  go  and  take  my  brothers  by  the  hand — 
I'll  fold  again  my  sisters  to  my  breast ; 

Our  hearts  will  thrill  when  we  together  stand, 

And  Heaven  will  smile,  and  whisper  we  are  blest.' 


14        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 


II. 

-How  rich  the  memories  of  my  early  days — 


The  days  of  mirth,  light-heartedness,  and  hope, 

When  life  to  come  appear'd  a  sunny  slope, 
Where  roses  bloom'd  and  birds  sang  merry  lays. 

The  calm  experience  of  my  riper  years 
Has  proved  to  me  that  heaven  lies  upward : — he 

Who  would  obtain  the  bliss  that  ever  cheers 
Must  labour  well,  and  love  with  constancy. 

Still  sweet,  oh  sweet !  the  memories  remain 
Of  earlier  years,  when  pleasantly  I  dream'd 

Of  joys  in  promise  (like  man's  promise,  vain) — 
And  paradise  in  manhood's  future  seem'd. 

The  illusive  hours  of  youth  have  pass'd  away, 

But,  bright  and  beautiful !  ye  memories,  with  me  stay. 

III. 

I  took  the  cars,  and  went  to  New  York  city : 
'Twas  Sat'day  night,  and  ere  eleven  o'clock 
The  ferry-boat  had  brought  us  into  dock 

Across  the  Hudson.     ('Tis  somewhat  a  pity 
The  cars  can't  drop  us  in  the  town ;  'tis  very 
Uncomfortable  thus  to  cross  the  ferry 


TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  15 

On  winter  nights.     I  always  shake  and  shiver 
Soon  as  I  leave  the  cars,  where  I've  been  keeping 
Snug  as  a  mouse  on  downy  pillow  sleeping. 

Ugh  !  how  I  hate  that  voyage  o'er  the  river !) 
I  went  to  bed,  and  got  up  rather  late 
Next  morn — (for  I  had  lain  till  nearly  eight) — 

I  kiss'd  my  friends ;   my  lip  with  love  did  quiver ; 
And  then  I  kept  the  Sabbath  with  becoming  state. 

IV. 

Were  I  to  judge  from  every  towering  steeple 
That  rises  grandly  o'er  their  city  round, 

I'd  say  the  Yorkers  are  as  pious  people 
As  anywhere  upon  the  earth  are  found. 

On  Sabbath  morn  I  went  to  Dr.  Potts's, 

(He  who  had  wordy  jousts  with  Dr.  Wainwright: 
Which  one  of  them  was  in  the  main  right, 

If  I  should  say,  I'd  get  as  many  shots  as 
My  literary  vestment  could  contain — 
And  so  'tis  wise  my  dictum  to  refrain.) 

The  doctor  preach'd  an  apostolic  sermon, 
As  orthodox  as  one  would  wish  to  hear — 
Strong  Scripture  common  sense  ;  and  on  mine  ear 

It  fell  refreshingly  as  dews  on  Hermon. 


16  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

V. 

How  soothingly  the  music  o'er  me  stole  ! 

Something  of  heaven  amid  a  world  of  sin ; 
Like  healing  oil  it  dropp'd  upon  my  soul, 

And  calm'd  the  tumult  of  my  thoughts  within. 
Nature  ne'er  meant  that  man  should  be  a  Quaker ; 

And  though  the  Friends  are  students  in  her  school, 

They  follow  not  each  clearly  written  rule, 
Nor  in  her  true  harmonic  teachings  take  her. 

Life  without  music  is  night  without  a  star — 
Day  without  sunshine — rose  without  perfume — 
Eye  without  lustre — cheek  without  a  bloom — 

Or  clouds  without  rainbow  when  the  storm  is  far. 
Music  on  earth  for  me,  besides  the  promise  given 
Of  music  and  of  hymns  high  in  the  courts  of  heaven  ! 

VI. 

Next  day  I  wander'd  through  the  busy  streets, 
And  all  the  folks  I  met  were  in  a  hurry ; 
It  seems  the  city  of  perpetual  worry, 

And  something  strange  a  stranger  daily  meets. 

The  stream  of  life  through  thousand  channels  flow- 
ing— 

The  women,  of  all  ages,  features,  hue, — 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  17 

Of  beauty,  sense,  and  virtue  not  a  few ; 
The  men  like  hasty  locomotives  going, — 

Full  many  wise  and  noble — some  with  chins 
And  upper  lips  enrobed  in  bristling  hair 
Like  that  which  foxes  and  opossums  wear, 

When  in  the  wilds  they  frisk  their  nimble  shins  ; — 
Some  clad  in  raiment  spun  of  finest  fleece, 
And  some  in  garments  glistening  with  grease. 

VII. 

I  walk'd  alone  upon  the  Battery, 

And  look'd  upon  the  waters  as  they  roll'd — 

A  crystal  sheet,  with  here  and  there  a  fold — 
Up  through  the  Narrows  from  the  distant  sea. 

Sea-weeds  were  clinging  to  the  rocks,  and  shell 
Were  hiding  in  the  crevices  between ; 
And  I  remember'd  days  that  once  had  been, 

And  felt — and  felt — no,  no,  I  cannot  tell. 
I  thought  of  long-gone  time — he  who  can  feel 
Will  know  the  meaning  that  I  can't  reveal. 

Once — once  I  was  a  boy,  and  stood  there  often, 
And  years  of  love  had  link'd  my  heart  to  home ; 

Now — dearest-loved  ones  lie  within  the  coffin, 
And  'tis  my  lot  in  other  scenes  to  roam. 
<Z* 


18  TUl's    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE, 

VIII. 

Twice  I  received  a  wholesome  castigation, 

For  going  on  the  Battery  to  play 
Without  parental  leave  and  approbation  : 

(I'll  not  forget  it  to  my  latest  day.) 

I  told  a  rather  hesitating  story, 
Not  quite  in  keeping  with  my  course  in  youth — 

(It  may  have  been  a  crooked  allegory, 
And  did  not  run  in  straight  lines  with  the  truth.) 

I  bless  the  rod,  and  bless  the  hand  that  wielded, 
Although  it  made  my  back  and  shoulders  tickle. 
'Twas  thus  I  learn'd  a  rod  was  in  the  pickle 

For  me  when  I  to  wilful  follies  yielded. 
This  was  the  moral  I  shall  long  remember — 
Prune  in  the  Spring  for  fruitage  in  September. 

IX. 

Both  long  and  brief  beseem'd  the  thirty  years 
That  had  since  then  departed.     Joy  and  sorrow 
Had  come  to-day  and  vanish'd  on  the  morrow  ; 

And,  changefully  as  April,  hopes  and  fears 

Had  reign'd  within.     Unsought-for  bliss  had  stolen 

Into  my  soul ;   nor  knew  I  whence  the  flow 


TAM's  fortnight  ramble.  19 

Of  love  had  come  that  oftentimes  had  swollen 
The  river  of  my  heart,  till  in  a  glow 

Of  ecstasy  I  gazed  upon  a  stone 

And  loved  my  Maker  more  because  he  made  it. 
There's  scarce  a  brook  but  has  a  tree  to  shade  it, 

And  dim  the  glittering  glories  that  have  shone 
Upon  its  sunlit  waters.     So,  I  ween, 
The  experience  of  the  most  of  men  has  been. 

X. 

There  was  a  period  of  my  brief  existence — 
(Some  twenty  years  ago,  while  yet  the  haven 

Of  manhood  glimmer'd  in  the  uncertain  distance, — 
My  cheek  still  dimpled,  and  my  chin  unshaven) — 

When  o'er  my  mind  at  intervals  came  stealing 

A  tide  of  deep  and  melancholy  feeling. 

Up-bubbling  thoughts  now  sparkled,  and  then  broke 

And  sank  away,  and  were  forever  gone. 

Softly  I  breathed  the  while  the  spell  was  on, 
Nor  moved  my  lip,  nor  audibly  I  spoke. 

I  strove  to  catch  each  evanescent  thought 
That,  like  a  meteor  in  the  winter  sky, 
With  sudden  brilliancy  oppress'd  mine  eye  ; 

But  long — oh  !   long — my  strivings  were  for  naught. 


20        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XL 

Words  tell  not  in  what  anguish  I  have  lain 
Prone  on  the  floor,  and  sought  to  give  a  vent 
To  fancies  that,  like  molten  lava  pent, 

Were  surging  in  my  wild,  chaotic  brain ; 
Till  passionately  I  cast  my  pen  from  me, 

And,  like  an  infant  wearied  with  long  weeping, 
Resign'd  myself  to  thoughtless  apathy, 

And  shut  mine  eyes  as  if  in  quiet  sleeping. 
Love  enter'd  in  my  bosom.     Love  was  first 

To  bid  my  fancy  own  a  conqueror's  sway  : 

The  barriers  of  the  flood  were  swept  away, 

And  wild  and  rude  the  hurrying  numbers  burst. 

O'erwhelming  and  exuberant  was  the  joy 

The  rough-shod  rhymes  imparted  to  the  boy. 

XII. 

I  scarce  can  paint  the  years  that  follow'd  after, — 
The  thoughtful  hours — the  hours  of  melancholy, 

Alternating  with  days  of  joy  and  laughter, 
That  led  me  oft  to  moralize  on  folly. 

Fame's  idle  vision  pass'd  before  my  view ; — 
How  frequently  'twas  follow'd  by  a  pang ! 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  21 

I  turn'd  aside,  and,  with  earth's  simple  few, 
Life's  simpler  themes  in  simple  words  I  sang. 

Within  my  soul  religion  claim'd  dominion, 
And  cast  her  pure  irradiance  on  the  lyre : 

The  gales  of  love  swept  from  her  downy  pinion, 
And  kindled  all  my  better  passions'  fire ; 

My  haughty  temper  melted  in  the  flame, 

And  o'er  my  breast  a  meeker  influence  came. 

XIII. 
How  poor  is  it  to  pile  a  pyramid, 

Or  seek  a  place  among  the  sons  of  fame, — 

To  grave  on  rock  the  letters  of  a  name, 
And  tell  the  world  of  what  one  said  or  did. 

In  poet's  lore,  and  sentimental  story, 
It  seems  as  'twere  this  life's  supremest  aim 

For  heroes  to  achieve  what  men  call  glory, 
And  die  intoxicate  with  earth's  acclaim. 

Ah  me  !  how  little  care  the  dead  for  breath 

Of  vain  applause  that  saved  them  not  from  death ! 
Could  fame  immortalize  the  human  frame, 

And  fix  undying  bloom  on  beauty's  cheek, 
And  cancel  guilt  and  memories  of  shame, 

Then  were  it  well  the  precious  boon  to  seek. 


22 


XIV. 

True  fame  and  dignity  are  born  of  toil: 
'Tis  so  ordain'd  by  Him  who  saw  it  good 
That  man  by  thought  and  toil  should  earn  his  food. 

Ev'n  the  brown'd  delver  of  the  yielding  soil, 
Who  draws  from  earth  the  sustenance  of  life, 

Has  more  of  nobleness  than  he  who  slays 
His  fellow-man  on  fields  of  bloody  strife, 

And  bears  a  weapon  stain'd  in  mortal  frays. 

The  world  and  Christ  have  different  measurements 

While  He  has  said  that,  Blessed  are  the  meek 

Who  in  forgiveness  their  avengement  seek, 
The  world  applauds  the  coward  who  resents 

A  scornful  word — whose  craven  spirit  fears 

His  Maker's  anger  less  than  man's  disdainful  leers. 

XV. 

A  wrong  avenged  is  doubly  perpetrated ; 

Two  sinners  stand  where  lately  stood  but  one. 
A  wrong  forgiven  is  wrong  annihilated  ; 

The  sin  is  almost  as  'twere  never  done. 
Oft,  love  and  mercy  and  their  gentle  train 
Appeal  to  man's  hard-heartedness  in  vain: 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  23 

Mercy  and  love,  in  holiest  incarnation, 
Once  dwelt  upon  the  earth  ;  but  hate  arose 
And  fired  the  fury  of  their  deadly  foes, 

And  smote  them  in  the  Prince  of  our  salvation. 
Yet  He  who  felt  the  fiercest  stroke  of  malice, 

And,  'spite  its  wrath,  for  man  redemption  wrought, 
Ev'n  He  takes  from  our  hand  revenge's  chalice, 

And  bids  us  hold  a  cup  with  loving-kindness  fraught. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine," 
Saith  God  ; 
4'  Xot  thine, 
Child  of  the  sod. 

"  I  will  repay 

The  wrong, 
Though  long 
My  time  delay." 

Ye  wronged  and  crush'd, 

And  weak, — 

Ye  meek, 
"Whose  plaint  is  hush'd 


24  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

By  fraud  and  power, — 

Hope  on  ! 

The  hour 
Will  come  anon, 

When  Heaven  shall  strike 

Your  foes, 

And  like 
Untimely  snows 

They'll  melt  away, 

And  ye 

Shall  be 
No  more  their  prey. 

Who  stings  a  heart, 

The  sting 

Shall  bring 
To  him  a  smart. 

Ye  who  in  heaven 
Would  live, 
Forgive, 

To  be  forgiven. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.         25 

Who  suffer  loss — 

And  take, 

For  sake 
Of  Christ,  His  cross, — 

Pray  for  your  foes, 

Do  good 

To  those 
Who  long  have  stood 

Across  your  path, 

And  glared 

In  wrath 
To  see  you  snared : 

And  when  your  time 

To  die 

Is  nigh, 
In  strength  sublime 

Your  souls  with  hope 

Shall  wait : 

The  gate 
Of  heaven  shall  ope, 
3 


26  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

And  voices  sweet 

With  love 

Shall  greet 
Your  flight  above. 


XVI. 

The  test  of  worth  is  wealth,  it  seems  to  me: 
Tot)  often  in  this  world,  a  fearful  ban 
Is  on  the  poor.     Nay,  tell  me  not  "  a  man, 

If  honest,  is  respected,  though  he  be 

A  dweller  in  the  vale  of  poverty." 

When  he  would  rise,  the  meaner  sort  combine 

And  lift  a  heavy  heel  to  push  him  down ; 

And  if  the  noble  struggler  do  not  drown, 
'Tis  not  because  they  show  no  base  design 

Or  purposed  negligence.     At  any  rate, 

He  rises  in  despite  of  Mammon's  hate, 

And  his  own  hand  his  hard-earn'd  bays  entwine. 

Were  Heaven  to  add  ability  to  will, 

Nature's  man-children  Pharaoh-like  they'd  kill. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  27 


XVII. 


When  haply  some  more  generous  spirit  lifts 
A  child  of  promise  from  the  vale  obscure, 
Who  else  had  died  unknown  among  the  poor, 

And  cheers  him  with  his  sympathy  and  gifts, 
"  A  miracle  !"  the  astonish'd  public  shout, 

And  laud  him  loud  and  lavishly  because 

The  man  obeys  the  Almighty  Father's  laws, 
And  like  a  brother  throws  his  arms  about 

His  lowlier  brother's  neck.  Oh,  blessed  lot 
To  be  possess'd  of  wealth  and  of  a  heart 

So  heavenly  made  that  it  refuses  not 
Of  its  abundance  freely  to  impart ! 

Our  Saviour  says  the  blessedness  of  giving 

Is  better  than  the  pleasure  of  receiving. 

XVIII. 

To  waste  away  this  life  in  pleasure-taking, 
To  have  it  on  the  book  of  heaven  printed — 
"  He  feasted  and  he  died,  nor  ever  stinted 

His  revel  nights  or  days  of  merry-making 

To  wipe  the  dews  of  grief  from  brows  of  sorrow, 

Or  cheer  the  soul  that  sat  in  gloom  of  night, 


28  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

Nor  bade  it  look  with  hope  for  a  to-morrow 
When  God  should  give  it  a  supernal  light" — 

How  sad — how  vain — and  how  contemptible  ! 

For  such  a  lot  the  vial  of  scorn  is  full. 
Who  gives  a  cup  of  water  in  God's  name- — 

The  water  of  affection — to  the  lip 

Of  some  sad  one  who  scarce  has  strength  to  sip, — 
Shall  have  a  vast  reward,  and  heaven  shall  know  his 
fame. 

XIX. 

While  impudence,  like  weeds,  will  thrive  apace, 

Genius  is  child-like,  and  so  sensitive 
It  scarce  obtains  on  earth  a  dwelling-place ; 

And  love  must  tend  it,  or  it  cannot  live. 
Neglect  and  contumely  have  destroy'd 
Full  many  a  man  whose  spirit  long  was  buoy'd 

By  the  fond  hope  that  yet  would  come  a  day 
That  should  repay  him  for  the  pain  he  bore : 
The  world's  unkindness,  like  a  canker,  wore 

Into  his  heart,  and  life  escaped  away. 
'Tis  sad  that  earth  should  lose  so  suddenly 

Her  gentle  ones,  and  few  be  left  behind 

To  temper  the  impetuous  selfish  mind, 
And  pour  affection's  oil  on  passion's  furious  sea. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.         29 

XX. 

So  let  it  be — it  has  been  ever  so  ; 

For  since  the  world's  foundation-stone  was  laid, 
And  sin  brought  "death  and  all  our  mortal  wo," 

Suffering  has  been  the  ransom-money  paid 
For  man's  redemption.     Precious  lesson  taught 

By  suffering  Jesus  ! — Murmuring  heart,  be  still ! 

Enough  for  thee  that  'tis  thy  Maker's  will. 
Then  let  thy  work  in  faithfulness  be  wrought : 

Thy  weary  toil  shall  fit  thee  for  thy  rest. 
Thy  grave  more  welcome — quieter  thy  sleep — 
If  round  thy  coffin  many  sigh  and  weep, 

Who  but  for  thee  had  lived  and  died  unblest. 
God  grant  to  thee,  my  soul — God  grant  to  all — 
Ripeness  in  faith  and  works  before  our  time  to  fall. 


END  OF  CANTO  I. 


3* 


CANTO   II, 


I. 

The  Utica  was  steaming  up  the  Hudson ; 

And  we  (some  friends  and  I)  took  passage  in  her, 

And  reach'd  Peekskill  in  ample  time  for  dinner. 
The  mountain  trees  had  neither  leaves  nor  buds  on, 

Yet  beautiful  the  haughty  Highlands  stood. 
Oh  blessed  land  of  rivers,  plains,  and  mountains  ! 

Beyond  all  regions  Heaven  has  made  it  good  ! 
More  precious  than  the  orient  golden  fountains, 

Or  diamond  stones  of  Occident  Brazil, 
My  country  is  my  Holy  Land.     I  love  her ! 
The  purest,  brightest  skies  are  spread  above  her, 

And  heavenliest  verdure  covers  vale  and  hill. 
The  clearest  waters  fish  did  ever  swim  in 
Are  hers.     And  oh,  what  words  can  praise  her  virtuous 
women  ? 


32  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

II. 

(Reader  !  forgive  the  muse's  transient  rapture-— 

Thy  heart  is  cold  if  thou  forgivest  not.) 

We  gazed  on  Tarrytovvn,  the  famous  spot 
Where  three  militia-men  made  noble  capture 

Of  Andre,  the  adventurous  English  spy. 

The  man  was  hang'd,  and  bravely  did  he  die. 
Some  years  ago  the  British  sought  his  bones 

And  placed  them  'mong  their  famous  worthies.     We 

Once  lost  a  hero  worthier  than  he  ; 
And  still  he  lies  beneath  the  unnoted  stones 

Where  he  was  buried.     I  have  ever  kept 
A  corner  of  my  heart  for  Nathan  Hale 
To  live  in ;  and  until  my  days  shall  fail, 

I'll  honour  him  whose  fate  a  lonely  mother  wept. 

III. 

He  ask'd  them  for  a  Bible  e'er  he  died  : 
He  had  been  taught  to  love  it  in  his  youth, 
And  now  he  yearn'd  to  ponder  on  the  truth 

In  his  last  moments, — and  he  was  denied! 

The  Britons  swung  him  'twixt  the  heavens  and  earth, 

As  if  lie  were  a  dog;  nor  scarcely  gave 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  33 

A  space  of  time  to  fit  him  for  the  grave. 

(Howe !  lordly  miscreant !  lord  by  chance  of  birth — 
Thine  is  the  sin,  and  thine  the  ignoble  fame ! 
I  loathe  to  stain  my  verses  with  thy  name. 

I  hold  thee  forth  as  one  of  vermin-breed, 
That  men  may  scorn  thee,  as  they  scorn  a  lie !) 

Hale  grieved — let  freemen  ponder  as  they  read — 
"  That  for  his  country  he  but  once  could  die." 

IV. 

Yet  Britons  tell  us,  "  We  are  base-begotten — 

A  mongrel  nation,  born  in  Time's  declension — 
Plebeian  people — sellers  of  corn  and  cotton, 

Unworthy  high  and  honourable  mention. " 
Well,  be  it  so.     The  lusty  strength  of  youth 

Is  better  far  than  proud  decrepitude. 

With  mind  and  might  and  fortitude  endued, 
We  stand  erect,  and  fight  for  present  truth. 

We're  in  the  young  delight  of  new  existence  ; 
The  ardent  blood  leaps  lively  in  our  veins ; 

The  dim  traditions  glimmering  in  the  distance 
We  scorn,  for  objects  worthy  manly  pains. 

We  tread  a  path  our  slanderers  never  trod, 

And  as  we  choose,  we  serve  and  worship  God. 


34        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

V. 

It  ill  becomes  our  brethren  thus  to  mock. 

Their  homesteads  once  were  also  ours ;  and  we 

Have  well  upheld  the  family  dignity, 
Nor  proved  degenerate  scions  of  the  stock. 

Let  all  the  earth  produce  a  parallel 

To  this  free  land  wherein  our  people  dwell. 
'Tis  ours  to  show  what  man,  most  free,  can  be : 

The  mission  is  not  given  to  us  to  pore 

O'er  cobweb'd  tomes  of  well-forgotten  lore ; 
Progression  is  our  law  and  destiny. 

We  lead  the  van  of  battle,  well  begun 
By  Sidney — Hampden,  Cromwell,  on  the  field, — 
And  glorious  Milton,  who  a  pen  did  wield 

That  glow'd  with  light  from  mind's  unclouded  sun. 

VI. 

Oh,  that  great  Milton's  mental  mantle  might 
(Like  the  rapt  prophet's)  fall  upon  this  land, 
"Which  owes  its  freedom  partly  to  his  hand, 

That  dared  betimes  the  fearless  truth  to  write. 
The  man  immortal  of  our  father-isle, 

His  fame  is  also  ours.     And  oh  !  that  men 


TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  35 

Would  sit  like  children  at  his  feet  awhile 
And  wisely  learn  of  him.     All  nations  then 

Would  show  their  giants.  I  wish  in  vain,  I  fear. 
When  he  was  old  and  blind,  they  gave  him  ten 

(They  promised  twenty)  pounds  for  his  great  poem, 
And  let  him  die.     And  'twould  be  so  again. 

Thus  angels  sometimes  on  the  earth  appear, 
But  till  they've  gone  to  heaven  no  person  seems  to 
know  'em. 

VII. 

If  I  believed  in  canonizing  men, 

I'd  canonize  John  Bunyan.     But,  indeed, 

I'm  follower  of  a  stern  and  simple  creed, 
The  "  excellent  way"  Paul  taught  by  tongue  and  pen. 

And  so  the  tinker  may  content  himself 

To  take  a  place  upon  my  mental  shelf 
Beside  John  Milton.     Twelve  full  years  was  he 

A  guiltless  prisoner  held  in  Bedford  jail; 

And,  companied  by  his  daughter — (blind  and  pale) — 
Manlike  he  bore  the  wrath  of  bigotry. 

"  'Twas  not  to  be  endured  that  he  should  preach ; 
They  had  not  sent  him,"  thus  the  prelates  reason'd : 
"  In  their  own  tenets  he  had  not  been  season'd, 

And  strange  'twould  be  to  let  a  tinker  preach." 


36        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

VIII. 

'Tis  hard  to  hinder  bitter  thoughts  from  rising — 
To  keep  the  word  of  scorn  unspoken — when 
I  read  the  cruelties  of  these  mitred  men 

Who  seem  t'  have  thought  that  man-anath'matizing 
Was  a  far  holier  work  than  man-redeeming. 

But  Bunyan  was  beyond  their  power:  nor  cords 

Nor  bars  could  bind  the  immortal  thoughts  and  words 
His  genius  hid  beneath  the  guise  of  dreaming. 

He  stands  alone  in  his  peculiar  glory, 

Sole  sovereign  of  the  realm  of  allegory. 

Two  hundred  years  have  pass'd  ;  yet  brightly  beams 

(Such  fascination  in  his  necromancy) 

On  us  the  radiance  of  his  brilliant  fancy. 

What  pleasant  sleep  was  his  that  had  such  glorious 
dreams  ! 

IX. 

Thou,  too,  stand  up,  Noll  Cromwell !     Take  thy  place 
Among  thy  country's  mightiest ;  for  thou  wert 

The  sturdy  champion  of  thy  suffering  race  ; 
And  thou  didst  battle,  ev'n  to  thine  own  hurt, 

For  man  and  truth  and  God.     They  slander'd  thee, 
The  minions  of  the  Second  Charles.     The  dirt 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.         37 

Of  slander  now  is  dried,  and,  verily, 

Like  good  old  Bunyan's  pilgrim,  thou  art  girt 

With  brighter  glory.     Godless  cavaliers 

Made  merry  of  thy  manly  spirit's  heaving ; 

Thy  sighs  and  groans,  thy  prayers  and  flowing  tears 
Were  mysteries  to  the  graceless,  unbelieving, 

And  scoffing  followers  of  a  bigot-king 

Who  oft  had  proved  the  freeman's  sorest  sting. 

X. 

The  first  and  faithless  Charles  (since  falsely  named 
The  Martyr)  sat  on  England's  throne,  and  sought 

To  set  aside  the  precepts  wisely  framed 

To  guard  the  freedom  of  man's  word  and  thought. 

He  maim'd  the  men  who  spoke  the  unwelcome  truth, 
Imprison'd  some,  and  some  the  tyrant  fined, — 
In  pillories  stood  stern  martyrs  of  the  mind, 

Yet  all  the  people  show'd  them  kindly  ruth. 

A  reckoning-day  was  coming.     Cromwell !  thou 
And  thy  true  cousin  Hampden  scorn'd  to  bow 

Before  the  pride  of  prelates,  king,  and  lords. 
Humanity  arose  in  arms  ;  and  dire 
And  awful  were  the  mortal  hate  and  ire 

When  tyranny  and  freedom  measured  swords. 
4 


38        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XL 

The  Arm  divine  o'erthrew  the  foes  of  men: 

The  death  of  Charles  a  small  atonement  made ; 
And  tyranny  sneak'd  to  its  murky  den, 

And  tiger-like  lay  watching  in  the  shade. 
'Neath  thy  protectorate,  old  England's  fame 
Grew  great  and  glorious.     Thy  simple  name 

Sufficed  to  keep  a  turbulent  world  in  awe ; 
And  people  great  and  small  securely  dwelt 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  equal  law  ; 
And  at  their  wont  the  high  and  lowly  knelt 

And  worshipp'd  God.     When  death  to  thee  came 
near, 
Still  trustedst  thou  in  Him  who  died  to  save. 

Thou  hadst  thy  faults  ;  but  who,  alas  !  is  clear  ? 
Immortal  memories  sanctify  thy  grave. 

XII. 

Short  time  it  was  that  thou  hadst  been  entomb'd 
When  tyranny  came  howling  for  its  prey ; 

Thy  worn-out  frame  was  savagely  exhumed, 
And  on  a  gibbet  swung  in  open  day. 

They  cast  thee  in  a  pit :  thy  mother  dear 

And  thy  sweet  daughter  too  :  and  many  more 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  39 

Of  pure  and  holy  ones.     The  atmosphere 
Shook  nightly  with  the  bacchanalian  roar 

And  horrid  riot  of  the  royal  court ; 

And  freemen's  wails  afforded  royal  sport. 
I  can  no  more.     Let  future  writers  tell 

The  faithful  story  of  those  murderous  times, 

The  "  merry  monarch's"  shamelessness  and  crimes, 
Whose  merriment  provoked  the  laugh  of  hell. 

XIII. 

All  Europe  groans  with  dark  and  ancient  crime  ! 

Her  catalogue  of  guilt  is  written  down, 

And  Justice  waits,  with  ever-deepening  frown, 
To  smite  for  sins  of  past  and  present  time. 

The  cry  of  man  uprises  to  the  Lord — 
Of  man  oppress'd,  and  moaning  helplessly ; 

And  shall  not  He  fit  recompense  award 
To  those  who  spurn  Almighty  God's  decree 

That  man  in  very  deed  a  man  should  be  ? 
The  lordly  few  eat  up  the  land  ;  the  poor, 
Vilely  earth-trodden,  silently  endure 

The  hunger-pang  ;  and  hapless  infancy 
Is  doom'd  to  labour,  ignorance,  and  tears, 
And  scarce  an  opening  ray  of  better  days  appears. 

END  OF  CANTO  II. 


CANTO   III. 


I. 

Winter  reclines  his  head  upon  the  lap 

Of  Autumn  ;  and  his  snowy  locks  he  flings 
Upon  her  bosom.     Closely  doth  he  wrap 

His  arms  around  her,  till  her  quiverings 
Subside  in  death.     His  voice  breaks  forth  in  wild 

And  piteous  howls,  as  if  he  mourn'd  the  death 

Of  the  meek  one  who  perish'd  at  his  breath. 
Stern  on  his  brow  the  angry  clouds  are  piled, 

And  bitter  are  his  rage  and  vengeful  spite  ; 

And  seamen  on  the  rocky  coast  at  night 
Fall  victims  to  his  ire.     At  times  he  seems 

To  put  away  his  wrath,  and  melting  tears 
Run  down  his  icy  cheeks  in  copious  streams ; 

But  soon  anew  they  freeze,  and  all  his  rage  appears, 
4* 


42  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

II. 

Yet  even  now  the  country  has  its  charms  ; 

And  he  who  has  a  cheerful  heart  may  see 

Some  beauty  in  a  brown  and  leafless  tree, 
While  silently  it  stands,  with  barren  arms 

Outspread,  as  'twere,  in  meekness  tow'rd  the  skies. 

The  man  has  dim  and  uninstructed  eyes 
Who  never  finds  the  hidden  gems  that  lie 

Beneath  his  feet  wherever  he  may  tread  ; 

And  he  who  bears  a  high  and  haughty  head 
Will  pass  unseen  some  work  of  wonder  by. 

The  flowers  may  all  have  gone — the  birds  departed— 
And  babbling  brooks  be  changed  to  speechless  ice, — 
Still  nature's  winter  aspect  may  suffice 

To  fill  with  tender  thought  the  pure  and  earnest- 
hearted. 

III. 

The  man  who  looks  around  him  as  he  walks 
Sees  objects  often  wonderful  and  new  ; 

And  he  who  thinks  while  his  companion  talks 
In  time  may  grow  the  wiser  of  the  two. 

An  open  eye — a  quick,  attentive  ear 

Will  lead  the  mind  into  the  ways  of  knowledge ; 


TAI8   FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE.  43 

For  all  the  world's  a  universal  college, 
And  every  one  may  be  a  learner  here. 

Experience  is  the  teacher :   dear,  indeed, 
Her  charges  are  to  thoughtless  folks  and  fools  ; 
But  those  who  follow  carefully  her  rules 

The  various  tongues  of  nature  learn  to  read. 
Thought  adds  to  thought ;   and  soon  the  mental  pile 
Uprises  heavenward,  like  a  coral  isle. 

IV. 

AY  ho  seldom  ploughs  his  mind  shall  reap  but  little  ; 

Weeds  quickly  overspread  the  fallow  soil ; 

The  toiler  may  be  wearied  by  his  toil, 
But  it  shall  yield  sufficiency  of  victual, 

Enough  for  his  own  use,  and  much  to  spare. 
To  him  who  hath,  abundance  shall  be  given  ; 

From  him  who  squanders  wastefully  his  share, 
All  that  he  has  shall  righteously  be  riven  : 

The  world  shall  make  a  proverb  of  his  name, 

And  he  shall  fill  a  sepulchre  of  shame. 
There's  work  enough  for  all ;  and  he  who  fills 

The  measure  of  a  useful  Christian  here, 
Shall  little  heed  life's  ordinary  ills, 

And  calm  content  his  life  and  death  shall  cheer. 


44  tam's  fortnight  ramblf. 

V. 

In  our  humanity  the  Lord  has  hidden 

Things  brighter  and  more  beautiful  than  lie 
In  mines  of  Mexico  ;  and  we  are  bidden 

To  seek  and  find.     We  live  below  the  sky, 
Yet  we  may  lay  up  treasure  even  there ; 

Yea,  life  immortal — purity  of  heart — 
Similitude  to  God,  in  that  we  bear 

Our  Saviour's  image  in  our  inward  part — 
The  taste  and  thirst  for  knowledge  failing  never, 
But  strengthening  in  us  ever  and  for  ever — 

The  depths  of  love  and  mercy  to  explore, 
And  wondrous  mysteries  of  His  works  to  know — 
To  course  through  worlds  that  in  the  distance  glow, 

And  learn,  and  love  and  serve  our  Maker  evermore. 

VI. 

This  present  life  seems  full  of  mysteries ; 

The  vulgar  mind,  to  superstition  prone, 
In  nature's  workings  fearful  omens  sees, 

And  shrinks  aghast  from  terrors  of  its  own 
Absurd  imagining.     Despotic  is  the  power 

Of  ignorance  ;  and  thousands  live  in  fear 


T AM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  45 

And  die  unnumbered  times  before  the  hour 
That  Heaven  has  set  to  end  their  being  here. 

The  trustful,  quiet,  mighty  thinker  seeks 
The  beautiful  and  simple  orderings 
Of  the  Great  Former  of  created  things, 

And  God  to  him  in  guiding  accents  speaks. 
Still,  in  the  dealings  of  the  Lord  with  men, 
Some  things  there  are  beyond  our  human  ken. 

VII. 

Some  dwell  in  palaces,  and  some  abide 

In  huts  ;  some  languish  from  the  lack  of  toil, 

And  others  would  give  thanks  if  they  might  hide 
Their  weary  frames  beneath  the  senseless  soil. 

Some  men  go  hungry  all  the  day;  and  some 
Do  turn  away  with  loathing  from  their  food, 
For  Heaven  has  given  them  multifarious  good 

Until  satiety  has  overcome 

The  natural  craving.     Some  have  friends  to  spare ; 

And  some,  in  times  of  des'lateness  and  grief, 

Have  none  to  bring  them  comfort  and  relief. 

Some  die  in  trouble  ;  some  have  naught  to  bear. 

Some  ride  on  high,  and  some  are  trod  in  dust ; — 

Can  lots  so  various  'mong  equal  men  be  just? 


46  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

VIII. 

Were  death  annihilation — were  this  life 

A  lamp  extinguish'd,  never  to  be  relit, — 
Then  words  of  deep  despondency  were  fit ; 
Then  man  perchance  might  lift  his  arm  in  strife 

Against  his  Lord.     Were  blessedness  of  mind 
Dependent  on  the  vastness  of  the  heap 

Of  gold  and  gems  the  schemers  'mong  mankind 
Could  gather — then  'twere  virtuous  to  weep. 

But  'tis  not  so.     Infinity  of  time 
Is  yet  to  be.     Beyond  our  vision  lie 

Eternal  realms  ineffably  sublime 
And  beautiful.     Nor  heart,  nor  ear,  nor  eye 

Of  man  has  known  what  things  are  there  prepared 

For  all  who  have  His  love  and  mercy  shared. 

IX. 

The  mourners  of  the  earth  there  mourn  no  more ; 

The  sigh — the  tear  in  heaven  is  unknown  : 

They  walk  in  white  and  glory  round  the  throne, 
Who  in  their  mortal  life  were  spurn'd  the  door 

Where  Sin  and  Mammon  reign'd  within  the  dwelling. 

Unmeasured  bliss  their  raptured  breasts  is  swelling, 


TAM  S  FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE.  47 

And  all  are  brothers  there.     None  rolls  himself 

In  dust  of  gold,  and  lifts  his  head  above 
His  fellow  worms  because  the  glittering  pelf 

Sticks  to  his  slimier  coat.     The  law  of  love 
Is  perfectly  obey'd.     The  innumerable  throng 

Have  each  a  separate  theme  of  joy  ;  yet  all 
Unite  in  hallelujah  and  in  song, 

And  God's  benignant  smiles  on  all  the  brethren  fall. 

X. 

And  there  is  rest, — the  full  and  perfect  rest 

Of  unfatigued  activity  :  not  such 
As  lulls  awhile  the  languid  mortal's  breast 

When  he  has  thought  or  labour'd  over-much  : 
Not  such  :  but  more — immeasurably  more, 
That  needs  eternity  to  tell  it  o'er  : 

A  ceasing  from  infirmity  and  sin  ; 
Release  from  envy,  hate,  and  jealousy, 

And  wrath,  that,  like  wide  open  doors,  let  in 
i"pon  the  soul  a  cursed  company 

Of  evil  spirits : — rest  in  the  arms  of  God, 
The  garment  of  His  love  His  people  covering, 

Their  feet  with  soft  and  silken  sandals  shod, 
And  His  rich  mercies  ever  o'er  them  hovering. 


48         tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XI. 

And  has  this  various  life  a  change  so  fair 

And  glorious  ?     Does  man — his  death-sleep  o'er — 
Awake  angelic  ?     Then  who  would  not  bear 

And  suffer  long,  and  wait  in  patience  for 
Deliverance  ? — O  weeper  on  the  way  ! 
Do  many  sorrows  on  thy  bosom  prey  ? 

Dost  feel  thy  burden  heavy  ?     Lift  thine  eye 
To  Christ  thy  strengthener.     If  from  thee  He  take 

No  burden,  still  He  listens  to  thy  cry, 
And  He  will  save  thee  for  His  mercy's  sake. 

And  oh,  ye  poor  !  contemn  not  God's  decree, — 
If  poverty — a  bitter  medicine — cure 
The  soul's  distempers,  blessed  are  the  poor; 

Yea,  if  ye  are  Christ's  poor,  thrice  blessed  men 
are  ye. 

XII. 

If  plenty  palls  the  palate  of  the  rich, — 

If  appetite  be  lacking  at  the  feast, — 
If  honours  lose  their  magic  power  to  'witch, 

And  when  obtain'd,  are  loved  and  worshipp'd  least, — 
It  is  that  man  should  heavenward  aspire, 

And  seize  the  substance,  while  the  shadows  pass 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  49 

Like  forms  unreal  pictured  in  the  glass, — 
Should  warm  his  spirit  with  the  sacred  fire 

Of  love  to  God  and  man,  and  willingly 

Go  forth  on  earth  a  labourer  to  be — 
A  follower  in  the  path  of  Providence, 

A  missioner  along  this  life's  highway, 

The  orphan's  helper  and  the  widow's  stay, 
Till  God  shall  call  his  ransom'd  spirit  hence. 

XIII. 

Uprightly  stand,  then,  brothers  of  my  race  ! 

And  manly  meet  the  troubles  of  the  way  : 
A  trustful  hope  in  our  Redeemer  place, 

And  lovingly  and  kindly  as  ye  may 
Assist  some  weaker  ones  who  have  to  bear 
A  weight  of  which  your  arm  should  take  a  share. 

Whate'er  your  station,  ye  are  sent  of  Heaven 
To  do  a  generous  work  among  your  kind : 

Into  your  trust  a  talent  has  been  given  ; 
It  may  be  wealth  of  gold  or  wealth  of  mind, — 

It  may  be  large,  it  may  be  very  small ; 
But  use  it  well,  and  ye  shall  one  day  hear 

A  welcome  voice  in  winning  accents  call 
Your  souls  to  dwell  in  an  immortal  sphere. 
5 


50  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XIV. 

There  are  some  bosoms,  all  the  wide  world  over, 
That  flow  with  what  is  call'd  the  milk  of  kindness ; 

And  though  I've  not  been  an  extensive  rover, 
Yet  I  were  chargeable  with  moral  blindness 

Did  I  not  see  and  feel  the  winning  grace 

That  Heaven  has  given  to  many  of  our  race. 
The  image  of  the  Highest  may  be  seen 

In  many  of  His  children  on  the  earth. 

No  claim  they  make  to  a  patrician  birth, 

Yet  in  their  kindly  tone,  their  peaceful  mien, 

Their  love,  and  faith,  and  self-denying  spirit, 

They  give  us  strong  assurance  they  inherit 

The  temper  of  their  Lord,  who,  on  the  Mount, 
In  matchless  words  man's  duty  did  recount. 

XV. 

The  heart  of  kindness  seldom  sours  or  curdles  ; 

The  cream  of  love  is  in  it  pure  and  sweet  : 
With  every  charm  that  human  nature  girdles, 

And  every  grace  of  gentleness  replete, 
The  man  who  has  a  kindly  heart  is  most 

In  pattern  like  his  Lord  ;  for  where  the  law 


TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  51 

Of  kindness  rules  the  heart,  the  virtues  draw 
Together  in  companionship,  and  post 

Themselves  around  that  citadel  of  love. 

The  kindly  man  doth  always  kindly  prove  : 
He  has  a  word  of  sweetness  for  the  child — 

Of  pity  for  the  poor — of  sympathy 
For  all  who  mourn  ;  and  truly  glad  is  he 

When  through  his  generous  care  some  sorrowing  face 
has  smiled. 

XVI. 

There's  music  ever  in  the  kindly  soul, 
For  every  deed  of  goodness  done  is  like 
A  chord  set  in  the  heart,  and  joy  doth  strike 

Upon  it  oft  as  memory  doth  unroll 

The  immortal  page  whereon  good  deeds  are  writ; 

And  Heaven  gives  nothing  sweeter  to  the  mind 

Than  memories  of  the  acts  that  bless  our  kind. 
How  foolish  they  who  seek  in  biting  wit 

Amusement,  at  a  weaker  brother's  cost ! 
The  wanton  anguish  man  inflicts  on  man 

Is  written  down — it  never  shall  be  lost ; 

Some  coming  day  'twill  meet  God's  righteous  ban. 

Be  ours  the  grace  to  breathe  our  daily  breath 

In  kindliness,  and  die  the  £ood  man's  death. 


52  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 


XVII. 


The  village  of  Peekskill  has  goodly  share 

Of  kindly  men  and  women.     ("  Women  !  I  pray  ! 

Use  softer  term,  Sir  Poet !  Ladies,  say." 

The  proudest  name  the  gentler  sex  can  bear 
Is  woman,  simply  woman — bosom-mate 
Of  hardier  man,  and  sharer  of  his  state. 

And  'tis,  besides,  the  name  bestow'd  by  Heaven, — 

I'll  use  it  till  a  better  word  be  given.) . 

How  big  the  human  heart  is  !     How  much  'twill  hold 

Of  love  !     In  it  the  blissful  stream  may  pour 

Continually,  and  yet  there's  room  for  more  ! 
Should  I  be  spared  till  I  am  gray  and  old, 

I'll  not  forget  the  freshet  of  affection 

That  met  me  there  and  drown'd  my  mind's  dejection. 

XVIII. 

Brother  and  I  together  took  a  ride 

To  Shrub  Oak  Plains.     There  cousin  John  alone 
Is  lying — friend  nor  kinsman  by  his  side. 

His  resting-place  is  noted  by  a  stone 
Of  whitest  marble  :   truthful  words  are  those 
Inscribed  thereon.     The  scene  of  his  repose 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  53 

Befits  his  life  :   'twas  beautiful  and  calm. 
In  meekness  and  in  love  he  went  his  way, 
Uprightly  walking — filling  up  the  day 

With  useful  deeds.     He  often  pour'd  the  balm 
Of  healing  into  wounded  breasts  ;  nor  sought 

The  praise  of  men  in  doing  good, — for  he 

Had  been  a  learner  at  Gethsemane, 
And  he  remember d  well  what  his  loved  Master  taught. 

XIX. 

Dear  John  !  'Twas  but  a  little  while  ago 
"When  he  beside  me,  pensively  and  still, 
Wander'd  among  the  mounds  at  Laurel  Hill, 

And  sought  the  grave  of  one  he  loved.     The  snow 
Had  melted  from  the  fields,  and  Spring  was  coming ; 
And  southern  winds  blew  with  a  gentle  humming. 

He  left  me  for  his  northern  home.     The  flowers 
Of  Summer  bloom'd  and  faded  ;  Autumn  came, 
Whose  setting  sun  gleam'd  like  a  golden  flame. 

Then  Winter  brought  long  nights  and  stormy  hours. 
But  John  the  Autumn  nor  the  "Winter  days 

Saw  not:  Heaven  call'd  him  in  the  Summer  time; 

He  pass'd  away  in  his  and  nature's  prime. 

A  nobler  pen  than   mine    might  worthily  write  his 
praise. 

5* 


54  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XX. 

In  Peekskill  dwelt  another  godly  man  ;* 

But  there  he  dwells  no  more  ;  he  too  has  cast 

Aside  mortality,  and  lately  past 
Into  the  heavens.     His  life  was  but  a  span 

On  earth  ;   and  yet  'twas  long  enough  to  win 

The  crown  that  waits  the  victor  over  sin. 
"  I  have  one  hope — one  only  hope,"  he  said  ; 

"  My  precious  Saviour !"     And  as  thus  he  spoke, 
Death's  darkness  gather'd  slowly  round  his  head  ; 

And  from  the  invisible  world  a  brightness  broke 
On  his  new-given  spiritual  sight. 

The  morning  of  the  Sabbath  had  arisen, 
And  earth  was  resting  when  his  soul  took  flight, 

And  heavenward  sped,  like  bird  escaped  from  prison. 

XXI. 

Of  one  who  bore  to  Christ  so  sweet  resemblance, 
I  fain  would  leave  this  token  of  remembrance  : — 

*  Died,  at  Peekskill,  on  Sabbath  morning,  November  8, 
1846,  Rev.  Daxiel  Bnowx,  pastor  of  the  Payson  Presbyterian 
Church  of  that  village. 


TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  55 

A  righteous  man  has  pass'd  away — 

A  holy  man  from  earth  : 
There  seldom  dwells  in  tent  of  clay 

A  soul  of  higher  worth. 

In  gentleness  and  love  he  went 

A  peaceful  path  along  ; 
Yet  in  each  wise  and  high  intent 

His  heart  was  true  and  strong. 

Few  months  agone,  while  yet  the  year 

Was  scarce  a  full  day  old  ; 
He  hade  me  welcome  to  his  cheer, 

Nor  aught  did  he  withhold. 

I  parted  from  him  in  his  door : 

He  said,  "  Good-by  ;  if  we 
Here  see  each  other's  face  no  more, 

In  heaven  our  meeting  be." 

I  bore  his  image  in  my  mind, 

And  ever  with  delight 
Within  my  bosom  I  enshrined 

The  memories  of  that  night. 


56  TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE. 

And  oftentimes  I  hoped  again 

To  hear  his  pleasant  voice 
Discourse  on  things  of  Heaven  and  men 

In  language  rare  and  choice. 

'Twas  when  the  year  was  growing  gray- 
The  time  of  fading  leaves — 

That  God  convey'd  his  soul  away 
Among  His  ripen'd  sheaves. 

Our  land  has  storied  men  whose  fame 

Is  written  on  the  rock  ; 
But  dearly  will  his  honour'd  name 

Be  cherish'd  by  his  flock. 


XXII. 

Babes  also  die.  I've  look'd  into  the  grave 
Wherein  was  laid  a  little  child  I  love, — 
My  nephew  George.     Affection  vainly  strove 

Most  earnestly  the  stricken  boy  to  save. 
'Twas  otherwise  decreed.     Were  I  to  say 
How  pearly  pale  and  beautiful  he  lay 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  57 

Within  his  coffin,  one  might  think  it  were 
A  sin  to  hide  him  in  the  sepulchre. 

I  touch'd  his  forehead  and  his  tiny  hand  ; 
How  cold  they  were ! — the  chill  went  to  my  heart, 
And  wellnigh  caused  the  pent-up  tears  to  start ; 

But  stern  composure  came  at  my  command, 
And  silently  I  stood,  and  loved  the  more 
The  child  who — dead — look'd  lovelier  than  before. 

XXIII. 

We  bore  him  to  the  grave  while  yet  'twas  morn, 

The  winter  sunlight  shining  on  his  coffin  : 
The  weight  of  grief  was  heavy  to  be  borne, 

And  the  salt  tears  rose  in  our  eyelids  often. 
We  slowly  walked  in  mutely  sad  procession  ; 

The  pitying  people  freely  made  us  way  ; 
And  the  blest  child,  yet  guiltless  of  transgression, 

We  softly  placed  between  the  walls  of  clay. 

We  sang  a  hymn — we  bow'd  our  heads  to  pray ; 
And  God,  who  had  our  bitter  grief  appointed, 
Sent  also  strengthening  grace  by  lips  anointed. 

We  look'd  again  on  George  as  low  he  lay 
Deep  in  the  earth ;  and  when  we  homeward  went, 
We  felt  his  home  was  better  'yond  the  firmament. 


58  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XXIV. 

The  clock  upon  the  mantel-piece  was  ticking; 

Thus  hour  by  hour  it  tolls  a  funeral  chime  : 
By  day  and  night  its  calm  and  constant  clicking 

Denotes  the  speed  of  the  old  traveller  Time. 
It  is  a  solemn  voice.      Who  hath  an  ear 
To  hear  its  warning  accents,  let  him  hear, 

And  preparation  make  to  meet  the  day 
When  he,  alone,  shall  lie  upon  the  brink 
Of  human  life,  and  death  shall  bid  him  drink 

The  hemlock  cup  that  none  can  put  away. 
What  though  man  turn  from  the  unwelcome  theme, 

Will  Time  sit  still  for  man's  forgetfulness  ? — 
To  watch  and  wake  were  wiser  than  to  dream 

And  wake  at  last  to  wo  remediless. 

XXV. 

"  'Tis  time  we  should  be  going,"  Socrates 
Said  to  his  judges  ;  "  me  to  die,  and  you 
To  live  :   the  better  which,  is  known  unto 

The  gods  alone."     Happy  for  him  who  sees 
'Tis  time  for  him  to  go  about  his  work 

And  finish  well  the  allotted  part  before 


TAM  8    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  59 

The  set  of  sun,  when  labour-hours  are  o'er, 
And  night  descends  in  mantle  damp  and  murk. 

In  reckless  mood,  some  waste  their  morning-time, 
And  like  an  idiot  gathering  straws  they  clasp 
The  gewgaws  of  this  world  with  earnest  grasp, 

While  life  slips  on — till,  past  its  glorious  prime, 
With  trembling  steps  they  carry  down  the  road, 
Hugg'd  to  their  breast,  a  perishable  load. 

XXVI. 

Spring  for  the  youth,  and  summer  for  the  man, 
And  autumn-time  for  him  whose  head  is  sere  ; 
But  when  one  meets  the  winter  of  his  year, 

Then  should  he  rest,  and  well  and  wisely  scan 
The  tenor  of  his  life,  and  lessons  give 
How  younger  men  may  well  and  wisely  live. 

I  loathe  to  see  the  old  man  dabbling  in 

The  turmoils  of  the  world.     Like  one  apart, 

Turning  aside  from  Mammon's  work  and  sin, 
Be  his  the  holy  task  to  teach  the  heart. 

In  the  midway  between  two  worlds  he  stands  : 
His  foot  is  lifted  ;  when  he  steps  again, 
He  passes  from  the  dwelling-place  of  men, 

And  a  new  stage  of  life  begins  in  other  lands. 


60  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XXVII. 

Thus  earth  goes  forth  in  constant  emigration 
To  the  good  land  of  Heaven.     And  evermore 
The  angel  who  stands  sentinel  on  the  shore 

Proclaims,  "  Another  from  the  lost  creation  !" 
The  sea  of  death  continually  is  dotted 

With  barks  of  spirits  voyaging  across  ; 

And  all  whose  guilt  the  grace  of  Christ  has  blotted, 

Sail  swiftly  on,  nor  meet  with  harm  or  loss. 
True,  darkness  to  the  natural  eye  may  cover 

The  still  and  dismal  waters,  and  alone 

Each  vessel  ploughs  a  sea  before  unknown, 
Yet  o'er  the  track  invisible  angels  hover  ; 

And  the  death-hidden,  from  the  darkness  waking, 

Beholds  the  morn  of  day-eternal  breaking. 


END  OF   CANTO  III. 


CANTO   IV. 


I. 

The  Singsing  stage  up  to  the  door  was  driven  ; 

I  was  the  only  passenger  that  day, 

And  sadly,  gladly  I  pass'd  on  ray  way, — 
My  wavering  heart  by  varying  feelings  riven, 

And,  like  a  pendulum,  swinging  to  and  fro. 

From  dear  and  loving  friends  I  grieved  to  go, 
Still  I  was  glad  to  turn  my  wandering  face 
And  hasten  toward  my  peaceful  dwelling-place. 

A  gale  blew  briskly  round  St.  Anthony's  Nose, 
And  pierced  my  bosom  with  its  sudden  cold  ; 
I  drew  my  cloak  with  somewhat  tighter  hold, 

And  in  a  buffalo  skin  I  hid  my  toes  ; 
And  thus  I  travell'd  a  romantic  road 
That  scenes  of  beauty  and  of  grandeur  shovv'd. 
6 


62         tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

II. 

The  Dunderberg  sat  silently  beneath 

The  snowy  clouds,  that  form'd  a  vapory  wreath 

Above  its  peak.     The  Hudson  swept  along 
Its  mighty  waters — oh  !  had  I  a  pen 
Endued  with  master  gifts  and  genius,  then 

Might  I  aspire  to  tell  its  praise  in  song. 
But  I'm  an  humble  bard,  without  a  name, 

Who  tunes  his  straw  in  praise  of  homely  things 

If  gentle  hearts  are  touch'd  by  what  he  sings, 
He  is  content,  and  thinks  it  noble  fame. 

In  learned  words  let  transcendentals  talk, 
And  borrow  phrases  from  the  Greeks  and  Latins ; 
If  habited  in  foreign  silks  and  satins, 

My  verse  would  limp  and  lose  its  natural  walk. 

III. 

Of  human  things  my  muse  delights  to  tell — 
Of  home  and  hope — of  gentleness  and  love, 

That  sink  like  oil  into  the  deepest  cell 

Of  selfish  hearts,  and  make  the  hinges  move 

More  readily  to  let  the  truth  come  in. 
There's  poetry  bound  up  in  every  life 
Whose  year^  with  love  and  usefulness  are  rife, 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.        63 

For  poetry  and  love  are  sister-kin. 

The  affectionate  glances  of  a  happy  wife — 
A  husband's  tender  tones — an  infant's  smile — 

The  voice  of  childhood  merrier  than  a  fife — 
With  themes  like  these  'tis  sweet  an  hour  to  while  ; 

And  yet  when  musing  on  a  lonesome  way, 

My  thoughts  on  somewhat  sadder  topics  stray. 

IV. 

And  thus  it  was  the  woof  and  warp  of  thought 
Into  this  web  of  ballad-lines  were  wrought : — 

PART  I. 

Near  where  the  sea-green  billows  kiss 

The  Hudson's  crystal  water, 
In  years  agone  there  lived  in  love 

A  widow  and  her  daughter. 

Dear  Ellen  was  a  gentle  girl, 
She  loved  her  God  and  mother : 

Her  father  perish'd  in  the  sea, 

And  other  kindred  none  had  she, 
Nor  sister  fond,  nor  brother. 


64  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

I've  wander'd  in  a  wood  at  morn 
When  all  around  was  stilly, 

And  in  a  shady  nook  I've  seen 
A  solitary  lily. 

Like  such  a  lily,  Ellen  bloom'd 

In  modesty  and  sweetness, 
And,  nurtured  by  a  heavenly  care, 

She  grew  in  heavenly  meetness. 

'Twere  well  had  she  thus  lived  and  died, 
Her  heart  unscathed  by  sorrow  ; 

Her  day  of  life  succeeded  by 
A  blest  eternal  morrow. 

I've  wander'd  on  the  mountain  side 
With  gladness  reigning  o'er  me, 

And  suddenly  a  wily  snake 
Uncoil'd  its  form  before  me. 

So  in  her  peaceful  path  there  came 
A  man  with  aspect  smiling  ; 

He  came  as  Satan  came  to  Eve, 
In  look  and  word  beguiling. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  65 

His  tongue  was  soft  as  velvet  leaf, 

His  poison-fangs  concealing ; 
But  where  he  stung,  the  festering  wound 

Was  past  the  art  of  healing. 

"  Beware  of  him  whose  speech  is  smooth," 

The  mother  spake  her  daughter  ; 
"  The  deepest  depths  are  ever  found 

Where  flows  the  smoothest  water." 

''  His  heart  is  like  an  angel's  heart," 

The  daughter  spake  her  mother ; 
''  He  seeks  to  be  to  thee  and  me 

A  loving  son  and  brother." 

She  listen' d  to  his  guileful  tale, 

Nor  heeded  words  of  warning ; 
Ah  !  bitterly  did  future  pain 

Repay  her  present  scorning. 

For  Robin  laid  his  cunning  game 

With  art  so  deep  and  skilful, 
That  gentle  Ellen's  mind  was  turn'd 

To  disobedience  wilful. 
6* 


66  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

And  secretly  at  eventide 

She  left  her  home  and  mother: 

The  reverence  to  her  parent  due 
She  gave  unto  another. 

They  stood  before  the  man  of  God, 
Without  a  mother's  blessing  : 

Then  came  again,  and  knelt  to  her, 
The  hasty  act  confessing. 

The  mother's  brow  with  utter  grief 
Was  for  a  moment  shaded  ; 

Yet  freely  she  forgave  her  sin, 
Nor  angrily  upbraided. 

PART  II. 

The  days  of  honeymoon  were  few — 

The  days  of  joy  were  fewer; 
For  ere  had  pass'd  the  pleasant  moon 
That  shineth  in  the  month  of  June, 
The  bride  began  to  rue  her. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  67 

I've  seen  a  morn  awake  in  smiles 

With  sweet  and  balmy  wooing; 
And  when  the  mid  of  day  was  come, 

I've  mark'd  the  tempest  brewing ; 
And  ere  the  star  of  night  arose, 

I've  seen  the  storm  pursuing 
The  nying  feet  of  man  and  beast, 

To  work  their  dread  undoing. 

Our  Ellen's  life  is  thus  portray'd  : 

Ah  me  !  how  sad  the  story, 
That  bitter  storm  should  follow  morn 

Which  woke  in  peace  and  glory. 

The  evening  meal  was  set :  the  wife 

Was  sitting  by  her  mother: 
The  cloth  was  spread  for  three, — but  where 

Was  lingering  now  the  other  ? 

They  sat  in  troubled  silence  there, 

The  mother  sadly  eyeing 
The  speechless  wife,  whose  eyes  betray'd 

Her  secret  tears  and  sighing. 


68  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

When  secret  tears  are  shed,  the  heart 
Has  cause  to  be  a  weeper : 

For  hidden  grief  is  mortal  grief, 
And  surely  slays  its  keeper. 

The  evening  time  wore  slowly  on — 
The  clock  did  chime  eleven, 

And  Ellen  and  her  mother  bow'd 
And  sought  the  grace  of  Heaven. 

Another  hour  has  pass'd,  and,  lo  ! 

The  mid  of  night  is  over  ; 
And  where  is  Robin  loitering  still  ? 

Why  cometh  not  the  rover  ? 

The  dog  is  barking  down  the  lane, 

A  traveller's  foot  is  coming : 
And  Ellen  lifts  her  swollen  eyes, 
And  staggering  Robin  she  descries, 
A  drinking-carol  humming. 

He  falls  upon  the  floor,  and  sleeps — 
More  brutal  he  than  human  ; 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  69 

Oh  cruel  thought,  that  wretch  so  great 
Should  ever  be  the  bosom-mate 
Of  meek  and  gentle  woman  ! 

The  hours  of  early  day  approach  ; 

And  as  the  morn  is  breaking, 
Sad  Ellen  at  the  cooling  spring 

Her  fever'd  heat  is  slaking, 
And  fearfully  she  waits  the  hour 

Of  wretched  Robin's  waking. 

Farewell  the  fancied  days  of  bliss, 

Thus  quickly  doom'd  to  perish  ! 
Farewell  the  holy  things  of  home 

Her  heart  was  fain  to  cherish  ! 

Farewell  the  blessed  sympathies 
That  wake  the  tenderest  feelings  ! 

Farewell  to  open  confidence 
And  mutual  heart-revealings  ! 

Farewell  to  hope — the  seed  she  cast 

Had  blossom'd  to  be  blighted  ! 
Farewell  to  love — its  purest  gifts 

Were  ofler'd,  and  were  slighted  ! 


70        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 


PART  III. 

A  year  had  pass'd.     'Neath  Robin's  roof 

Was  heard  an  infant  crying ; 
And  Ellen  press'd  it  to  her  heart, 

With  earnest  prayer  and  sighing : 

Would  God,  the  gracious,  kindly  pour 

The  spirit  of  contrition 
In  Robin's  soul,  and  turn  his  feet 

From  courses  of  perdition  ? 

Oh,  must  her  child — her  guileless  child 

His  father's  shame  inherit  ? 
And  must  the  world's  unpitying  scorn 
By  him  in  coming  days  be  borne, 

Through  his  own  sire's  demerit  ? 

Ah  !  Robin,  see  our  smiling  babe, 

Such  loveliness  possessing  ! 
Oh  stay  with  us,  and  be  to  us 

Our  sweetest,  dearest  blessing." 


lA.Vs    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  71 

"  Begone,  I  say,  nor  trouble  me 

With  hypocritic  mewling : 
Let  man  abroad  in  pleasure  roam, 
'Tis  woman's  place  to  bide  at  home, 

And  soothe  the  children's  puling." 

Unhappy  Ellen  !     Weep  and  pray, 

Nor  heed  the  mocking  laughter 
Of  Robin,  as  he  rushes  forth — 

There  comes  a  stern  hereafter  ! 

Weep  on  and  pray,  with  patient  love, 

Thou  sufferer  pale  and  lonely ; 
For  blessed  are  such  weepers  now — 

On  earth  they  suffer  only. 

But  Ellen's  heart  had  other  grief: 

She  saw  her  mother  languish, 
And  bow  her  head  and  die,  and  leave 

The  world  and  all  its  anguish. 

The  wife,  so  desolate,  had  now 
A  desolation  deeper ; 


72  TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE. 

They  laid  her  mother  in  the  grave, 
And  Ellen's  soul  was  fain  to  crave 
A  place  beside  the  sleeper. 

PART  IV. 

A  piteous  thing  it  is  to  see 
A  child  who  has  no  mother, 

Her  father  dead,  her  sisters  dead, 
And  dead  her  only  brother. 

That  child  is  still  a  happy  child, 

If  only  rest  upon  her 
The  memory  of  a  father's  name 

All  crown'd  with  virtuous  honour. 

More  touching  is  the  sight  to  see — 

And  to  be  pitied  rather — 
A  hapless  child  whose  portion  is 

A  drunkard  for  a  father. 

Four  summers  passed  o'er  Robin's  son  ; 

His  cheek  was  bright  and  glowing  ; 
Behold  him  to  the  infant-school 

With  eager  footsteps  going. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  73 

He  walks  alone  ;  and  when  the  school 

Is  o'er,  behind  he  lingers : 
The  other  children  stand  aside, 

And  point  at  him  their  fingers. 

M  His  father  is  a  drunkard  I"  cry 
A  dozen  infant  voices  ; 
And  Robin's  boy  sits  down  and  weeps, 
While  every  child  rejoices. 

He  hasten'd  to  his  home — his  cheek 
Without  a  smile  or  dimple  : 
"  Father  !  am  I  a  drunkard's  child  !" 
He  said  in  accents  simple. 

Then  Robin  smote  him  ;  and  he  fell, 

His  forehead  sorely  bruising, 
And  from  his  mouth  a  little  stream 

Of  blood  came  slowly  oozing. 

The  bleeding  boy  awoke  to  life, 

And  Ellen  sought  to  still  him : 
But  he  was  made  an  idiot  by 

The  blow  that  fail'd  to  kill  him. 

7 


74  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

Through  many  days,  unmeaning  words 
The  hapless  martyr  mutter'd  ; 

Then  holy  things  of  heaven  and  earth, 
By  angels  taught,  he  utter'd. 

And  God  had  mercy ;  and  again 
He  gave  the  child  his  reason  : 
And  strange  and  wondrous  things  he  said, — 
Man's  thoughts  came  from  an  infant's  head, 
Like  fruits  before  their  season. 

He  never  play'd  again  ;  but  on 

Sad  Ellen's  bosom  lying, 
11  Dear  mother,  sing !"  to  her  he'd  say, 
And  he  would  fold  his  hands  and  pray, 

And  talk  of  heaven  and  dying. 

'Twas.on  the  holy  morn  that  tells 

The  resurrection-story, 
He  kiss'd  her  lips,  and  closed  his  eyes, 

And  pass'd  to  heavenly  glory. 

Now,  mother !  stay  thy  soul  on  God  ; 
When  woes  like  these  attend  thee, 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  75 

Supporting  grace  must  come  from  Him 
Who  only  can  befriend  thee. 


PART  V. 

'Tis  night.     The  spirit  of  the  frost 

Upon  the  tempest  rideth  : 
And  wilder'd  travellers  o'er  the  waste 

A  doom  of  death  betideth. 

Yet  crazy  Robin  wanders  forth, 

Unearthly  noises  ringing 
Within  his  ears,  and  in  his  breast 

Remorse,  the  scorpion,  stinging. 

The  evil  demon  of  the  still 
A  war  with  him  is  waging, 

And  reason  topples  from  her  throne, 
And  Robin's  mad  and  raging. 

He  wanders  to  the  mountain's  brink, 
Nor  knows  his  fatal  error  ; 

He  falls  upon  the  jagged  rocks, 
And  cries  in  pain  and  terror. 


76  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

The  winds  shriek  wildly  round  his  head, 
Like  angry  tigers  growling; 

And  through  the  night  the  tempest's  voice 
Commingles  with  his  howling. 

No  human  ear  is  nigh  to  hear, 

And  in  his  woe  he  dieth  ; 
Upon  the  rocks  at  morning  dawn 

His  mangled  body  lieth. 

Just  as  the  fool  dies,  so  died  he, 

The  day  of  mercy  ending, 
A  night  of  darkness  and  of  wrath 

In  awfulness  descending. 


PART  VI. 

'Twas  autumn  eve.     The  gentle  flowers 

On  every  side  were  fading; 
The  setting  sun  shone  on  the  hills, 

The  lowly  valleys  shading. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  77 

A  breeze  as  soft  as  angel's  breath 

Around  the  couch  was  stealing, 
"Where,  praying  fervently  in  faith, 

A  man  of  God  was  kneeling. 

And  sorrowing  friends  stood  round  the  bed 

Whereon  a  form  was  lying: 
'Twas  Ellen  ; — there  the  suffering  saint, 
Without  a  murmur  or  complaint, 

In  peace  and  hope  was  dying. 

A  silence  deep  as  death  was  there 

When  her  true  soul  departed  ; 
And  grace  and  mercy  crown'd  her  end 

Who  lived  the  broken-hearted. 


7* 


78  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

V. 

I  saw  the  homestead  of  a  rancorous  tory, 

Who  fought  against  his  country  in  the  years 
Of  our  old  revolutionary  glory. 

He  well  deserved  a  cropping  of  his  ears, 
But  Britain  pension'd  him.     His  neighbours  round 

Gave  him  a  pension  too — of  hearty  scorn. 

Of  freeman's  powers  he  by  the  law  was  shorn, 
Yet  he  was  wont  to  come  upon  the  ground 

"Where  freemen  met  to  vote.     His  very  name 

A  jest-word  on  the  tongues  of  men  became. 
"  Ho  !   ho  !   sir  patriot !   will  you  cast  a  vote  ?" 

They  cried  with  biting  tone  and  lip  upcurling. 
"  I'd  rather  have,"  he  mutter'd  in  his  throat, 

"  Two  hundred  fifty  pounds  in  money  sterling!" 

VI. 

This  was  the  sum  the  British  paid  him  yearly  ; 
And  many  a  debt  like  this,  that  people  did  owe 
To  such  as  he.     They  gave  it  to  his  widow 

When  he  was  dead.     Methinks  'twas  earn'd  too  dearly 
A  vagabond  and  fugitive  like  Cain 
Is  he  who  smites  his  fatherland  for  gain. 


r AM  8    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  79 

New  York  has  many  counties  ;  but  Westchester 
Has  ripen'd  memories  clustering  on  the  stem 
Of  old  tradition.     Who  shall  gather  them 

But  one  whose  line  is  graced  with  some  ancestor 
That  sow'd  the  heroic  seed  ?     A  stirring  tale 
Might  be  rehearsed  of  every  hill  and  vale. 

Had  these  mute  rocks  a  voice,  their  tongues  could  tell 

Of  deeds  that  made  our  fathers'  bosoms  swell. 

VII. 

The  times  of  Seventy-six  and  after-years, 

Till  freedom  on  our  hills  sat  peacefully, 

Were  times  not  often  given  to  earth  to  see, 
When  men,  triumphing  over  natural  fears, 

And  for  the  love  they  bore  to  liberty, 

Resisted  to  the  death  the  tyranny 
Of  foreign  sway.     It  was  not  meet  that  they — 

The  hardy  tamers  of  a  continent — should  give 
Their  birthright  to  their  kinsmen  far  away, 

Who  dwelt  upon  an  island  in  the  sea, — 
A  haughty  isle,  yet  so  diminutive, 

That,  were  a  giant,  in  a  sportive  sally, 

To  toss  it  in  our  Mississippi  Valley, 
'Twould  seem  an  infant  on  a  mother's  knee. 


80  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

VIII. 

'Twas  kingly  tyranny  and  priestly  rule 

That  drove  our  fathers  from  the  homes  and  graves 
Of  their  ancestors.     In  the  Cromwell  school 

They  learn'd  man's  dignity ;  and  crouching  slaves 
In  mind  or  body  they  could  ne'er  become. 
They  cast  the  price,  and  sternly  paid  the  sum 

That  freedom  cost.     They  took  their  venturous  way 
Over  the  sea,  and  set  their  feet  upon 
A  free  wild  land  beneath  the  western  sun. 

The  God  they  served  was  their  unfailing  stay ; 
And  busy  towns  and  villages  arose, 

And  peace  and  plenty  dwelt  within  the  land, 

Till  in  a  fateful  hour  the  Briton's  hand 
Fell  heavily  on  them,  and  brethren  turn'd  to  foes. 

IX. 

The  men  of  Seventy-six  in  their  good  arm 

— -Sustain'd  by  Heaven — reposed  a  manly  trust ; 

O'er  all  the  land  was  sounded  war's  alarm, 
And  victory  crown'd  the  valour  of  the  just. 

The  fire  of  liberty  fell  down  from  Heaven 

Till  from  our  shores  the  enemy  was  driven  ; 


TAM's    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  81 

And  freedom,  with  the  land's  redemption  shod, 
Her  benison  flung  o'er  every  hill  and  plain. 
Few  of  that  band  of  noble  men  remain  ; 
Their  spirits  have  obey'd  the  call  of  God, 
And  where  they  rest  is  deem'd  a  hallow'd  sod. 
Their  perils  fearful — measureless  their  gain  ! 

While  love  of  home  the  freeman's  breast  shall  fill, 
Their  fame  shall  cause  the  freeman's  breast  to  thrilL 

X. 

Dear  brethren,  friends,  and  country  of  my  love ! 

"  The  lines  are  fall'n  to  us  in  pleasant  places  :" 

A  newer  blessing  every  moment  chases 
Some  previous  blessing  sent  us  from  above. 

Our  cup  is  full,  and  rich  as  Heaven  can  make  it 

For  lips  of  man  unworthy.     Brethren,  take  it, 
And  let  us  quaff  it  with  a  glowing  spirit. 

Its  fulness  will  remain  ;  and  while  we  drink 

Of  bliss  surpassing  nectar,  let  us  think 
How  great  and  pure  was  our  forefathers'  merit. 

Let  thankful  thoughts,  like  morning's  fragrance,  rise, 
Whene'er  to  us  returns  our  natal  day  ; 

And  He  who  smiles  upon  us  from  the  skies 
Will  guide  our  country  in  a  righteous  way. 


82  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

XI. 

— Our  coach  got  in  too  late.     The  other  stage 

Had  started  on  the  way  to  Tarrytown ; 

So  at  an  inn  my  driver  set  me  down. 
Folly  it  were  to  fall  into  a  rage, 

And  so  I  paid  the  fare  and  kept  from  strife. 
The  sun  was  to  its  winter  zenith  risen, 
And  forth  I  went  to  visit  Singsing  prison, 

Where  some  have  berths  for  years,  and  some  for  life. 
Eight  hundred  live  in  company,  yet  alone, 
And  spend  their  time  in  manufacturing  stone. 

The  prison  stands  along  the  river  shore ; 
It  has  no  outer  wall ;  but  men  with  guns 
Keep  watch,  and  shoot  the  felon  if  he  runs ; 

And  rogues,  in  silence,  learn  to  steal  no  more. 


END  OF  CANTO  IV. 


CANTO   V. 


I. 


The  years  are  stealing  one  by  one  on  me ; 

My  face  is  growing  older,  and  my  hair 
Is  not  so  flaxen  as  'twas  wont  to  be, 

And  my  complexion  (ruddy  once  and  fair) 

Begins  to  show  the  trace  of  mental  wear : 
And  several  children  clustering  round  my  chair — 

(One  is  in  A,  B,  C  ;  the  others  read ; 

At  learning  they  are  very  apt  indeed) — 
Look  up  to  me  with  fond  respectful  air  : 
Yet  sober  truth  impels  me  to  declare 

I  often  feel  as  young  and  full  of  joy 

And  sportiveness  as  when  I  was  a  boy  ; 
With  mischief  and  with  mirth  my  bosom  teems, 
And  still   I  love   to   share  in   childhood's   fun   and 
schemes. 


84         tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

II. 

I  give  this  merely  as  a  good  excuse 

For  all  the  whims  and  fancies  of  these  papers  : 

If  graver  people,  liable  to  vapours, 
Object,  and  say,  "  The  poet  is  a  goose  !" 

Why,  let  them  say  it.     Well  enough  I  know 

That  living  springs  at  times  must  overflow  ; 
But  who'd  refuse  the  limpid  stream  to  quaff 

Because  the  waters,  as  they  run  along, 

Dance  over  stones  and  sing  a  cheerful  song, 
And  whirl  and  purl  as  if  they  fain  would  laugh  ? 

Methinks  my  verses  human  life  betoken  ; 
Sadness  and  mirth  mix'd  curiously  together, 
Like  clouds  and  sunshine  in  the  spring-time  weather : 

What  cheerful  heart  that  has  not  nigh  been  broken  ? 

III. 

We  sometimes  see  a  shadow  swiftly  skim 
In  summer  o'er  the  hills  and  vales  of  earth  : 
So  transient  shades  steal  o'er  the  face  of  mirth, 

And  frequent  tears  the  brightest  eyes  bedim. 
For  instability  and  change  are  written 

On  us  and  all  our  works.     The  loveliest  things, 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  85 

When  full  of  promise,  oftentimes  are  smitten  ; 
And  sweetest  roses  foster  hidden  stings. 

The  world,  if  loved  too  well,  doth  ever  pall, 
And  the  poor  fool  who  set  his  heart  thereon 

Is  doom'd  to  see  his  hope  in  ruins  fall, 
Its  frail  foundation  undermined  tnd  none. — 

May  thus  a  mortal  utter  his  complaint, 

When  faith  is  weak,  and  he  is  worn  and  faint  ? 

IV. 

"  I  weary  of  this  wosome  world,  O  God  ! 

My  languid  spirit  sinks — my  nerveless  hands 
Have  lost  their  wonted  skill — my  feet  are  shod 

No  more  with  diligence.     Like  one  who  stands 
Supine  and  listless  at  his  journey's  end, 
Or  like  a  beggar  who  has  naught  to  spend, 

There  is  no  relish  in  this  life  for  me. 

For  I  have  sought  for  kindliness  and  truth, 
And  brotherhood,  among  my  human  kind  : 

But  I  have  found  the  visions  of  my  youth 
Unreal  creatures  of  a  dreaming  mind  ; 

And  fame  and  riches  false  and  fleeting  be. 
The  twig  may  thrive  when  sever'd  from  the  tree, 
But  all  my  comforts  die  when  I  am  far  from  Thee." 
8 


86        tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

V. 

Yet  good's  in  every  tiling  except  in  sin ; 

And  even  sin  itself  makes  virtue  seem 
More  beautiful.     Pain  is  of  brother  kin 

To  pleasure.     Night  adds  brightness  to  the  beam 
Of  day.     The  Spring  is  balmier  for  the  cold 

And  bitterness  of  Winter.     Budding  trees, 
That  long  seem'd  dead,  are  pleasant  to  behold. 

In  sultry  hours,  more  grateful  is  the  breeze. 
Thirst  makes  mere  water  sweet:   to  hunger,  bread 
Is  heavenly  manna ;  and  the  weary  head 

Contented  rests  upon  a  bed  of  straw. 
The  goodness  of  our  Maker  may  be  found 
In  every  place  the  wide  creation  round  : 

His  daily  Providence  proclaims  this  blessed  law. 

VI. 

How  warmly  we  are  loved,  we  seldom  learn 
Till  pain  and  sorrow  take  our  strength  away ; 

Then,  hearts  too  long  estranged,  to  us  will  turn, 
And  be  at  peace,  as  in  a  former  day. 

Our  true  and  loving  wife  more  loving  grows ; 
Our  little  ones  in  pitying  wonder  stand 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  87 

Beside  the  bed  and  clasp  our  fever'd  hand ; 
Their  glistening  eye  the  tear  of  feeling  shows ; 

And  it  may  be,  when  evening  calls  to  rest, 
They  sadly  kneel  beside  their  mother's  chair, 
Their  silvery  voices  blend  in  simple  prayer, 

And  for  their  sire  they  make  a  child's  request. 
The  times  of  anguish  vainly  are  not  given 
That  lead  a  family  to  unity  and  heaven, 

VII. 

An  urchin  said,  "  If  he  were  rich,  he'd  swing 

All  day  upon  the  gate."     And  many  people 
Are  fully  of  opinion  it  would  bring 

All  Heaven  to  them,  if  they  could  climb  the  steeple 
Of  their  desires.     They  clamber  high  and  higher, 
But  never  to  the  object  get  the  nigher. 

For  as  they  rise,  ambition  grows  the  stronger ; 
Insatiate  longings  prey  upon  their  mind ; 
And  while  they  seek  what  thus  they  ne'er  can  find, 

Death  intervenes,  and  lets  them  seek  no  longer. 
Their  day  and  dream  of  life  together  past, 

Aside  their  kinsmen  lay  them  in  the  tomb ; 
A  passing  thought  upon  their  fate  is  cast, 

And  myriads  still  rush  on  to  meet  a  similar  doom. 


88  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

VIII. 

And  is  this  "  all  of  life  ?"     Is  bursting  bubble 
Or  Sodom  apple  all  that  man  ma}'  gain  ? 

Like  a  lone  partridge  wandering  mid  the  stubble, 
Must  he  so  wander  o'er  life's  barren  plain  ? — 

Planting  for  happiness,  and  garnering  pain, 
Is  this  his  portion '?     Selfishly  alone, 
Shall  he  supremely  ever  seek  his  own, 

And  bid  the  suffering  one  to  weep  in  vain  ? 
Is  all  that  heart  requires,  accomplished  when 

A  heap  of  wealth  is  gather'd  at  our  door  ? 

How  thirsts  the  yearning  soul  for  something  more, 
Some  good  that  lies  beyond  its  keenest  ken  ! 

And  must  that  thirst  forever  be  unslaked  ? 

Shall  suicidal  dreamers  never  be  awaked  ? 

IX. 

For  man  immortal,  it  is  wisdom's  way 

To  make  this  life  the  pathway  to  a  better ; 

To  do  to  all  as  kindly  as  he  may, 

And  love  as  well  in  spirit  as  in  letter. 

Let  man  achieve  a  victory  o'er  himself; 

Let  him  observe  the  blessed  Preacher's  teaching, 


89 

And  turn  aside  from  trickery  and  o'erreaching, 
Nor  grind  his  fellows  for  the  sake  of  pelf. 

Oh  let  us  take  each  other  by  the  hand, 
And  help  the  weaker  o'er  the  rougher  places  ; 

Sure,  God  will  bless  so  brotherly  a  band, 
And  gift  our  souls  with  high  and  holy  graces. 

What  is  there  here  worth  living  for,  if  it 

Be  not  to  love  and  do,  and  grow  for  heaven  fit? 

X. 

The  book  of  human  nature  is  a  tome 

Most  strange  and  curious.     He  reads  it  ill 

Who  sees  not  man's  perversity  of  will 
Written  on  every  page.     Eschewing  home 

And  all  its  quiet  joys — forgetting  all 
The  little  tender  acts  that  fill  love's  measure, 

And,  like  the  dews  that  on  the  prairies  fall, 
O'erspread  the  heart  with  fragrant  flowers  of  pleasure — 

And  seeking  good  wherein  no  good  abides, — 

Is't  strange  that  disappointment  man  betides  ? 
The  earth  has  many  thorns,  but  roses  grow 

Among  them.     Hapless  is  the  lot  of  one* 
Who  goes  through  life  and  never  finds  it  so. 

For  him  the  pitying  muse  bids  these  quaint  numbers 
run  : 


90  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

The  happy  man  is  he, 
In  city  or  countrie, 
Whate'er  his  lineage  be, 
Who  liveth  lovingly 
Amid  his  family ; 
Whose  heart  is  like  a  tree 
That  flowereth  beauteously, 
And  beareth  seas'nably, 
And  yieldeth  fruitfully  ; 
Whose  mind  from  guile  is  free  ; 
Who  folio  weth  equity  ; 
Who  scorneth  flattery  ; 
Who  showeth  charity  ; 
Who  toils  with  industry  ; 
Who  walks  in  constancy 
And  true  humility ; 
Who  loveth  minstrelsie 
And  natural  poesy, 
And  trees' and  shrubbery, 

And  book,  and  bird,  and  bee  ; 

• 

Who  serveth  reverently 
The  Lord  of  land  and  sea  ; 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  91 

Who  honoureth  the  decree 
Of  the  heavenly  chancery, 
And  uncomplainingly 
Resigns  mortality ; 
Whose  faith  in  Christ's  a  key 
To  ope  eternity, 
Where,  while  the  ages  flee, 
He'll  dwell  immortally, 
And  wondrous  glories  see 
Unveiled  by  Deity. 
Be  this  the  destiny, 
Reader!  of  thee  and  me. — 


XI. 

I  went  from  Singsing  in  the  afternoon 

And  rode  to  Tarrytown,  and  willing  pains 
The  driver  took  to  get  in  to  White  Plains 

To  reach  the  New  York  cars ;  and  fully  soon 
The  mettled  horses  did  their  share  of  duty. 
The  mountain  views  to  me  were  rich  in  beauty, 

And  like  a  child,  to  whom  the  world  is  new, 
On  every  spot  T  cast  inquiring  glances  : 


92  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

And  this  was  natural  in  the  circumstances  ; 
And,  reader  !  'twould  have  been  just  so  with  you. 

For  I  was  passing  over  hallow'd  ground 
Where  Washington  had  trod,  and  where  he  learn'd 

(As  Britain's  boasters  to  their  sorrow  found) 
The  Fabian  policy  whereon  the  victory  turn'd. 

XII. 

I  felt  some  curiosity  to  learn 

Why  those  broad  plains  had  been  ycleped  White 
The  simplest  reason  I  could  there  discern 

Was  this — the  pebbles  in  the  fields  were  light 
Or  milky-hued. — The  alarm-bell  shrilly  rang  ; 

The  steam-horse  look'd  impatient  to  be  gone : 
The  passengers  with  expedition  sprang 

And  took  their  seats :  and  we  went  dashing  on. 
All  nature  seem'd  with  legs  to  be  endow'd : 

A  circling  race  the  trees  began  to  run  ; 

The  hills,  the  rocks,  the  fences  joined  the  fun, 
Creation  hasten'd  past  us  in  a  crowd. 

In  plainer  phrase,  along  the  rail  we  flew 

Till  Manahatta's  city  open'd  on  the  view. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  93 

XIII. 

I  met  a  man — I  may  not  tell  his  name — 

His  face  was  frank  and  fair :  but  one  who  gazed 
Into  his  eye  might  see  that  he  was  crazed  ; 

His  wife  had  crazed  him  by  a  deed  of  shame. 
He  sat  beside  me  in  the  travelling  car ; 

I  know  not  why  he  told  the  tale  to  me, — 

Perchance  he  saw  and  felt  the  sympathy 
I  had  for  him  whose  soul  had  such  a  scar. 
He  dwelt  in  peace  in  his  own  home  afar, 

And  love  and  quietness  abode  with  him  ; 
And  in  that  heaven  his  wife  was  as  a  star, 

Until  a  cloud  arose  and  made  it  dim. 

A  villain  stole  her  heart ;  and  what  was  left 
To  comfort  him  when  of  her  love  bereft ! 

XIV. 

She  left  his  dwelling,  and  she  bore  away 

Their  only  child — a  blooming  boy,  but  blind: 
The  blow  was  fatal ;  and  his  anguish'd  mind 

Totter'd  like  some  half-rooted  tree,  whose  stay 
The  hurricane  has  rent.     He  sallied  forth, 

And  on  the  wretch  he  plied  the  stinging  stroke 


94  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

Until  the  rod  in  useless  fragments  broke  ; 

And  then  he  took  his  journey  to  the  north 
To  seek  the  child.     "  I  would  not  take  his  life," 
He  calmly  said,  "  though  he  beguiled  my  wife  : 

Who  sits  upon  the  cloud  beheld  the  wrong 
I  suffer'd — He  will  make  it  right."     We  parted 

And  met  no  more  ;  but  in  my  memory  long 
Shall  bide  the  look  of  one  so  wan  and  broken-hearted. 

XV. 

Within  the  cars  were  various  sorts  of  people : 

Some  sat  in  couples — others  sat  alone  ; 

Some  softly  spoke,  and  some  in  boisterous  tone. 
A  churchman  told  of  his  new  church  and  steeple, 

And  rightly  show'd  a  warm  regard  for  both  ; 
A  fellow  near,  who  God  nor  man  regarded, 
His  low  and  vulgar  language  interlarded 

At  intervals  with  an  emphatic  oath. 
He  claim'd  to  be  a  gentleman,  no  doubt  ; 

Methinks  he  was  alone  in  that  opinion  ; 

A  common  swearer's  Satan's  meanest  minion. — 
'Twas  dark  when  we  got  in  ;  and  I  got  out : 

To  brother's  dwelling  I  went  hastily, 
And  quietly  with  friends  sat  down  to  talk  and  tea. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  95 

XVI. 

Delightful  is  an  evening's  cheerful  chat 
With  pleasant  friends,  especially  to  one 
Who  has  been  long  away.     The  minutes  run 

With  speed  that  all  the  talkers  marvel  at. 
So  much  to  talk  about — so  much  to  tell — 

So  many  sleeping  memories  to  awaken — 
The  various  fates  that  absent  friends  befell — 

Whom  time  has  spared,  and  whom  the  grave  has  taken  ; 
The  tear  to  shed  for  those  who've  pass'd  away — 
The  sigh  to  breathe  for  those  who've  gone  astray — 

Our  times  of  darkness,  and  our  days  of  light — 
Our  purposes  and  plans  for  coming  years — 
Our  heavenly  hopes,  our  earthly  human  fears — 

And  lo  !  'tis  time  to  say,  "  Good-night,  dear  friends, 
good-night !" 

XVII. 

Now  seek  we  balmy  sleep.     How  happy  he 
Who  folds  his  arms  upon  his  peaceful  breast, 
And  calmly  takes  his  'customed  nightly  rest ! 

But  some  sad  souls  are  sighing  wearily  : 
The  eye  is  dull,  yet  sleep  the  lid  forsakes ; 

The  ear  is  quick  to  catch  the  faintest  noise  ; 


96  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

The  clock's  dull  tick  the  drowsy  spell  destroys, 

And  on  the  downiest  bed  the  sufferer  wakes. 
All  sleep  but  him.     The  house  has  silent  grown, 

And  lonelier  grows  the  still  and  lonely  night. 

The  stealthy  cat,  with  footfall  fleet  and  light, 
Along  the  stairway  patting  up  and  down, — 

The  cricket  in  the  hearth, — the  creaking  door,- 
But  serve  to  make  the  silence  deeper  than  before. 

XVIII. 

While  thus  the  hours  in  solemn  stillness  roll. 
Some  thoughts  like  these  may  occupy  his  soul  :— 


I  lay  me  down,  but  cannot  sleep  ; 
My  thoughts  unwilling  vigil  keep  ; 
I  turn  in  weariness  and  pain, 
And,  lo  !  I  hear  the  sentry's  strain— 
"  Twelve,  and  all  is  well  J11 

The  air  with  noise  no  longer  stirs  ; 
Still  as  the  place  of  sepulchres 
The  sleeping  city  is — save  when 
The  sentry's  voice  is  heard  again— 
"  One,  and  all  is  well  I" 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  97 

How  solemn  is  the  night ! — the  eyes 
Of  heavenly  creatures  light  the  skies  : 
They  glimmer  o'er  the  ancient  tower 
Wherein  the  sentry  marks  the  hour — 
"  Two,  and  all  is  well  T 

How  many  others  wake  with  me, 
Dear  hrothers  in  infirmity  : 
How  many  homeless  wanderers  hear 
The  tones  that  fall  upon  mine  ear, — 
"  Three,  and  all  is  well!" 

Sad  hearts  !  how  wearily  and  slow 
The  long  and  lengthening  moments  go  ! 
When  will  the  darkness  pass  away  1 
Why  tarries  so  the  coming  day  ? — 
"  Four,  and  all  is  ivelll" 

Yes  !  all  is  well !     Though  now  I  weep, 
I  know  my  God  will  give  me  sleep  ; 
The  morning  light  is  in  the  skies, 
And  slumber  softly  shuts  mine  eyes — 
"  Five,  and  all  is  well  /" 

END  OF  CANTO  V. 


CANTO    VI. 


I. 

'Tis  Sabbath  in  New  York.  The  calm  of  rest 
Is  in  the  souls  of  men.  The  sound  of  bells 
The  hour  for  holy  convocation  tells  ; 

And  sacred  courts  by  worshippers  are  press'd. 
Mean  Mammon  hides  within  the  deepest  cells 
Of  the  mean  hearts  wherein  he  wonted  dwells. 

The  rich  man's  day — he  feels  his  poverty, 

His  need  of  grace  bestow'd  without  a  price : — 

The  poor  man's  day — he  learns  his  high  degree — 
That  he  is  noblest  who  has  least  of  vice  : — 

The  gathering-day  around  a  Father's  table, 

When  brethren  from  their  wandering-places  come 
And  sit  in  peace  like  children  at  their  home, — 

An  Eden  of  the  soul,  outspringing  from  a  Babel. 


100  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

II. 

The  day  is  past.     Another  morning  breaks, 
And  man  again  to  busy  labour  wakes  : 

Labour,  the  source  of  rest, — the  discipline 
Of  love, — the  doom  most  merciful  and  just, 
That  keeps  the  soul  uncanker'd  from  the  rust 

That  else  would  eat  it  with  the  tooth  of  sin, 

And  let  innumerable  sorrows  in. 
The  stillness  of  the  Sabbath — passing  sweet 

It  was — has  given  place  to  various  din  : 
The  hammer's  clang — the  rumbling  in  the  street, — 
The  sound  of  many  voices, — hurrying  feet, — 

The  uneasy  groans  of  ponderous  machines, — 
All  these — and  countless  more — the  listener  greet, 

And  magical  appear  the  city's  wondrous  scenes. 

III. 

The  blind  man  groping  cautiously  his  way 
Along  the  crowded  pavement  of  a  city, 
Has  natural  claims  upon  our  tender  pity. 

Whether  'twere  night,  or  whether  it  were  day, 
Would  seem  to  make  small  difference  to  him 
Whose  days  and  nights  alike  are  ever  dim  ; 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  101 

Yet  still  the  tramp  of  human  feet,  and  hum 

Of  human  voices,  sweetly  fill  his  ear  ; 

The  surgings  of  the  tides  of  life  appear 
Like  the  deep  sounds  that  from  the  ocean  come 

At  midnight  to  the  list'ner.     Pity's  glance 
Upon  his  form  instinctively  I  throw; 

And  while  some  sadness  clouds  my  countenance, 
To  God  1  pray  to  save  me  from  such  wo  : — 

IV. 

"  Thine  earth,  0  Lord  !  is  beautiful.  Mine  eyes 
Have  seen — my  heart  has  felt  it  so.  Thy  hand 
Has  set  its  seal  of  glory  on  the  land, 

The  sea,  and  every  thing  beneath  the  skies  : 
The  earth  was  bright  to  me  in  early  days, 

Ere  dimness  fell  on  me  ; — Oh  !  Father,  God  ! 

Thou  know'st  that  I  its  hills  and  vales  have  trod, 
My  bosom  full  of  love  to  Thee,  and  praise. 

I  loved  the  earth  because  'twas  made  by  Thee, 
And  made  so  fair.    I  still  would  look  upon 
Its  face  when  lit  with  radiance  by  the  sun, 

Or  by  the  moon  or  paler  stars.     To  me 

'Tis  beauteous  still,  the  earth  and  all  its  kind — 

Then  spare  me,  gracious  Lord  !  and  let  me  not  go 

blind  ! 

9* 


102  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

V. 

"  About  my  hearth,  five  little  ones  are  playing  ; 

Their  mother  sitteth  with  our  last-born  near  : 

What  hand  shall  feed   them,  and  what  voice  shall 
cheer, 
If  I  am  smitten  blind  ?     Lord,  I  am  praying 

For  these  my  children  whom  Thou  gavest  me, 

And  her,  more  loved  in  my  extremity. 
I  kiss  the  rod  that  smiteth  me.     Thy  will — 

Thy  sovereign  will — be  done !     But  yet  I  pray, 

Oh  !  spare  to  me  the  pleasant  light  of  day, 
And  let  me  look  upon  my  brethren  still. 
The  face  of  man  to  me  is  very  dear ; 

Then  set  me  not  alone,  where  I  shall  see 

My  human  kind  no  more,  and  ever  be 
A  dweller  in  a  land  all  lonely,  dark,  and  drear." 

VI. 

— How  pitiable  is  the  man  whose  mind 
Is  darker  than  the  ancient  night  that  fell 
On  Egypt,  (as  our  holy  Scriptures  tell,) 

And  who  has  never  learn'd  that  he  is  blind. 
In  rank  and  saucy  speech  he  calls  to  task 

The  Great,  the  Wise,  the  Holy  All  in  All ! 


TAM  I    FORTNIGHT    RAMDLF..  193 

With  questions  such  as  he  alone  dare  ask, 
He  mocks  Infinity  !     The  lightnings  fall, 

And  scath  him  not — he  scorns  the  Thunderer  ! 
He  swells  in  pride,  a  little  deity, 

Nor  heaven  nor  earth  shall  make  his  spirit  stir ! 
Fool  were  a  word  as  weak  as  word  can  be 

To  tell  his  name  : — Ah  no  !  the  man  is  blind  : 

The  God  of  mercy  make  him  sounder  in  his  mind. — 

VII. 

From  Manahatta  may  be  seen  Long  Island ; 

It  lies  between  the  river  and  the  ocean, 
And  interposes  many  a  verdant  highland 

Between  the  city  and  the  sea's  commotion. 
There,  near  the  beautiful  Gowanus  bay, 

Is  Greenwood  Cemet'ry,  the  place  of  rest 

Of  mouldering  men  whose  souls  are  with  the  blest. 
With  loving  friends  I  wander'd  there  one  day, 

A  winter  day,  such  as  we  sometimes  see 
When  old  December,  hoar  with  age  and  rime, 
Relents  its  rigour  in  its  dying-time. 

The  snow  lay  here  and  there  ;  and  spots  of  green, 

Amid  the  snow,  diversified  the  scene — 
The  emblems  of  a  life  beyond  mortality. 


104  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

VIII. 

In  after-time,  when  musing  on  that  hour, 
My  thoughts  fell  captive  to  the  poet's  power  : 

Were  I  to  choose  where  I  would  rest 

When  all  my  care  is  o'er, 
I'd  bid  them  lay  my  silent  breast 

Beside  Gowanus'  shore. 

In  Greenwood's  vale  should  be  my  grave, 

Or  in  its  shady  steep  ; 
The  ceaseless  singing  of  the  wave 

Should  charm  my  peaceful  sleep. 

I'd  rest  on  nature's  dreamless  bed, 
Beneath  the  smile  of  God, — 

His  hand  of  love  beneath  my  head, 
And  cover'd  with  her  sod. 

I'm  weary,  weary  now,  and  long 

Have  weary,  weary  been  ; 
And  melancholy  tunes  my  song 

When  sadness  reigns  within. 


tam's  fortnight  ramble.  105 

Yet  so  I  work  His  gracious  will, 

And  so  my  Lord  approves, 
I'll  bear  my  daily  burden  still, 

Till  He  its  weight  removes. 

When  God  shall  bid  me  enter  on 

The  Sabbath  of  the  dead, 
He  will  not  leave  me  all  alone 

The  lonesome  path  to  tread. 

Confiding  as  a  child  I'd  lie, 

And  slumber  on  his  breast ; 
Who  sleep  in  Jesus  never  die — 

They  close  their  eyes  and  rest. 


IX. 

On  Monday  afternoon — it  lack'd  a  quarter 
Of  five  o'clock — I  like  to  be  exact 
In  days  and  dates,  and  other  things  of  fact — 

I  bade  my  friends  good-by,  and  cross'd  the  water 
To  Jersey  City,  and  took  again  the  cars. 

The  evening  shades  set  in,  and  soon  the  Night 


106  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

In  silentness  put  on  his  crown  of  stars. 
The  moon  came  up,  and  wander'd  with  her  light 
Among  the  clouds.     Of  all  the  stars,  mine  eye 
Selected  one,  the  glory  of  the  sky : 
It  made  me  think  of  home ;  and  then  a  rime 
Rose  in  my  mind,  and  cheer'd  the  lagging  time. 
Thus  lovingly  I  rhymed,  while  tasting  only 
The  luxury  of  lounging  languidly  and  lonely : 


RIME    IN    A    RAILROAD    CAR. 

Afar  from  home  for  many  days, 
I  cried,  "  More  swiftly  move, 

Ye  cars,  upon  your  iron  ways, 
And  bear  me  to  my  love." 

The  wintry  day  had  pass'd,  and  night 
Put  on  his  jewell'd  crown, 

And  from  the  moon  the  beams  of  light 
Came  soft  and  gently  down. 

A  single  star  appear'd  at  first, 
And  twinkled  near  the  moon, 


TAM's  FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE.  107 

Undimm'd  by  all  the  host  that  burst 
Around  its  pathway  soon. 

The  steamy  engine,  like  a  bird, 

Skiram'd  o'er  the  level  rail ; 
'Twixt  mountain-heights  it  wildly  whirr'd, 

And  leap'd  along  the  vale. 

But  still  the  star  sped  on  before, 

As  if  to  lead  the  way ; 
Perchance  my  love  within  our  door 

Beholds  its  silvery  ray ; 

And  peace  comes  softly  in  her  heart, 

And  dark  and  troublous  fears 
Beneath  its  cheering  light  depart, 

And  faith  dries  all  her  tears." 

And  then  methought  the  eye  of  God 

Doth  ever  shine  upon 
The  darksome  way  in  patience  trod 

By  every  suffering  son. 

And  comfort,  like  a  sinless  bird 
Abiding  in  its  nest, 


108  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

Nestled  within  my  heart,  and  stirr'd 
Anew  my  loving  breast. 

Night's  silentness  was  all  around, 
My  journeyings  now  were  o'er  ; 

And  mine  own  faithful  love  I  found 
At  watch  within  our  door. 


X. 

Anon  I  thought,  at  home  'twould  not  be  ill 

To  set  up  for  a  poet — get  a  sign, 

"  Tarn,  poet — and  commissioner  for  the  Nine," 
And  tack  it  to  an  office  window-sill, — 

Procure  a  desk,  a  library-case,  and  chair, 

And  then  put  on  a  literary  air, 
And  cross  my  legs  and  wait  for  customers, 

As  legal  men  and  medical  doctors  do. 
I'd  send  my  card  to  liberal  publishers, 

Thus,  "  Office  hours  from  10  o'clock  to  2." 
A  quid  pro  quo  I'd  always  render  ;  that  is, 

The  merit  of  the  poetry  should  be 

Proportionate  to  the  bigness  of  the  fee : 
The  editors  and  album-ladies  gratis. 


TAM  S    FORTNIGHT    RAMBLE.  109 

XI. 

Ah  !  what  a  revolution  would  be  brought 
About  in  things  poetic  !     Then  no  more 
"Would  poets  hover  near  starvation's  door. 

Supping  on  words  and  breakfasting  on  thought, 
Until,  heart-frosted,  they  do  wilt  and  die. 

No  more  would  poets  be  associated 

With  lean  and  hungry  want :  no  more  be  fated 
To  live  midway  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky 

In  attic  rooms.     Professional  glory — 

O'erflowing  coffers — pomp — the  world's  esteem — 

And  all  that  goes  to  make  a  name  in  story — 
And  turn  this  life  into  a  splendid  dream — 

Were  theirs,  if  they  would  take  their  pay  in  kind, 

And  give  for  them  the  birthright  of  their  mind. 

XII. 

Pah  !  pah  !  I'll  none  of  it !     I'd  rather  stand 
Nobly  among  the  poor,  than  soil  my  soul 

And  stain  the  palm  of  my  unsullied  hand 

With  Mammon's  glittering  and  dear-bought  dole. 

If  I  possess  a  fairly-founded  claim 

To  add  the  poet's  title  to  my  name, 
10 


110  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

Let  me  sing  on  as  nature  teaches  me  : 
Let  purity  and  virtue  mark  my  words; 
Oh  let  me  touch  in  human  hearts  the  chords 

That  vibrate  in  completest  harmony, 
And  waken  music  in  the  souls  that  sit 

Afflicted  and  disconsolate  in  their  door, — 
Till  far  from  them  the  evil  spirits  flit, 

And  in  their  desolate  dwellings  joy  bides  evermore. 

XIII. 

But  oft  I  have  no  heart  to  make  a  rhyme  ; 

'Tis  scarce  worth  while  to  tell  the  reason  why. 

I  cast  my  verses  negligently  by, 
And  lay  them  over  for  another  time. 

"  Why  should  I  give  my  thought  and  care  to  buy 
A  jewel,  worthless  in  the  eyes  of  many, 
Who  set  a  higher  value  on  a  penny 

Than  on  the  purest  gem  of  poesy  ?■" 
When  thus  I  ask,  awhile  my  spirits  fail ; 
But  better  thoughts  and  purposes  prevail : — 

I'm  but  a  man  amid  a  world  of  men  ; 
Among  them  all,  a  few  may  love  to  listen, 
Until  their  hearts  grow  soft,  and  eyeballs  glisten 

With  tender  tears  awaken'd  by  my  pen. 


TAMS    FORTNIGHT   RAMBLE.  Ill 

XIV. 

Then  my  own  heart  grows  stronger,  and  I  feel 

That  God  has  given  us  naught  that  is  in  vain  ; 

That  simple  herbs  may  cure  acutest  pain, 
And  gentle  words  a  bosom-sore  may  heal. 

Then  sing  I  on  in  hopefulness  and  faith, 

And  close  mine  ear  to  what  the  scoffer  saith — 
Nor  heed  the  cold,  unsympathizing  stare — 

The  haughty  look — the  dull,  ungainly  grin 
That  marks  some  faces,  as  'twere  printed  there 

In  living  type,  "  There  is  no  man  within  !" 
Oh,  that  my  rhymings,  like  a  living  rill, 

That  slakes  the  thirst  of  mortals  worn  and  weary, 
May  flow  in  a  continuous  current  still, 

And  make  the  heavy-hearted  light  and  cheery. — 

XV. 

Somehow  the  other  train  ran  off  the  rail, 

And  thus  were  we  consid'rably  belated, 

And  longer  kept  than  we  anticipated 
Upon  the  road.     At  midnight  we  made  sail 

Across  the  Delaware.     Few  minutes  more, 

And  I  was  standing  safely  in  my  door. 


112  tam's  fortnight  ramble. 

A  sweet  embrace  soon  told  me  all  was  right ; 

In  arms  of  Love  their  lives  had  all  been  hid. 

I  kiss'd  the  children : — 'neath  the  coverlid 
Their  bright  blue  eyes  twinkled  like  stars  at  night. 

If  breasts  e'er  gladly  throbb'd,  our  bosoms  did  ! 
Our  thankful  vows  to  Heaven  we  kneel'd  to  plight 

In  fearless  trust  our  weary  eyelids  closed, 

And  softly,  sweetly,  soundly  we  reposed. 


END  OF  CANTO  VI.  AND  LAST. 


DOMESTIC   POEMS 


10* 


DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


A    PEEP    INTO    THE    PARLOUR. 

Love,  where's  the  poker  ?     I  would  stir  the  fire ; 
'Tis  getting  low — the  wind  is  ''getting  high;" 
Come,  draw  the  chairs  and  little  table  nigh; 

The  glowing  coals  will  cheerfulness  inspire, 
And  while  you  ply  the  needle,  I  will  write 
The  gentle  words  the  muse  may  speak  to-night. 

Ah  !   what  is  that  I     "  You  wish  I'd  talk,"  you  say. 
Just  as  you  like  ;  but  let  me  end  my  strain, 
Or  I  shall  tangle  all  my  fancy's  skein, 

And  lose  the  thread-end  of  my  homely  lay. 

"  You  wish  I'd  crack  some  nuts  and  eat  a  pippin  V 

You  know  my  hobby,  dear !     You  bring  me  low, 

And  conquer  with  a  single  loving  blow  ; 
The  nuts  and  apples  cheerfully  I'll  dip  in. 


116  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

You  want  to  know  "  What  nonsense  I  am  writing !" 
Ah,  now,  methinks  you're  somewhat  too  severe : 
The  Muse,  you  know,  is  but  my  second  dear, 

And  she,  like  you,  impels  me  to  inditing 

The  rhymes  you  say  are  sometimes  so  inviting. 
But  we'll  not  quarrel  for  such  little  things  ; 
Peace  in  our  dwelling  folds  her  downy  wings, 

And  presidents  and  lords  may  do  the  fighting. — 
Hist !  how  the  wind  is  howling  round  the  attic  ! 

The  tempest-king  is  sitting  on  the  air, 

And  we've  a  turkey  on  a  nail  up  there. 

Of  Christmas  nigh  at  hand  'tis  symptomatic. 

Then  listen,  love  ! — (be  off,  mischievous  kitten, 

And  let  my  foot  alone  !) — I'll  read  you  what  I've  writ- 
ten : — 

The  Wind  is  out  in  his  strength  to-night, 
And  the  Frost  is  under  his  wings ; 

Downward  to  earth  he  bendeth  his  flight, 
And  wild  is  the  song  he  sings  ; 

Wo,  wo  to  the  wretch  whose  hapless  head 

Hath  shelter  none,  nor  fire,  nor  bed  ! 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  PARLOUR.  117 

The  wind  is  putting  the  trees  to  rout — 

He  rends  them  in  his  wrath ; 
At  his  will  he  scatters  the  leaves  about, 

And  drives  them  from  his  path  ; 
He  splinters  the  den  of  the  sleeping  bear, 
And  the  torpid  brute  is  cast  from  his  lair. 

The  wolves  are  howling  the  forest  through, 

And  the  savage  panthers  growl ; 
The  echoing  woods  the  noises  renew, 

With  the  screeching  of  the  owl. 
The  men  are  in  peril,  who,  far  from  home, 
On  such  a  night,  in  the  wild  woods  roam. 

The  wind  on  the  sea  is  blowing  a  gale ; 

He  rolls  the  waves  on  high  ; 
And  the  quivering  ships,  without  a  sail, 

O'er  the  face  of  the  ocean  fly. 
A  tear  and  a  prayer  for  the  sailor  be  given 
Whose  vessel  is  on  a  lee-shore  driven  ! 

He  pierces  the  hut  of  the  shivering  poor — 
No  sigh  of  pity  has  he  ! 


118  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

What  mortal  can  tell  the  pangs  they  endure 

Whose  portion  is  poverty  ? 
Rich  stewards  of  Heaven,  to  want  unknown — 
God's  creatures  starve  for  lack  of  a  bone  ! 

"  Enough,"  you  say  ;  and  so  say  I.     It  pains 
My  inmost  soul  when  I  depict  the  woes 

That  many  a  poor,  unmurmuring  man  sustains 
As  mournfully  along  life's  way  he  goes. 

The  poor  are  with  us  alway.     Let  us  give 
To  them  a  share  of  what  to  us  good  Heaven 
In  flowing  cups  of  happiness  has  given  ; 

And  they  may  learn  to  feel  'tis  good  to  live. 

Good-night !     The  Sabbath  hour  is  drawing  nigh  ; 

We'll  lay  aside  our  labours,  love  !   and  rest : 

Our  Father  sends  His  blessing  to  our  breast 
While  humbly  we  for  His  sweet  favour  cry. 

We  fear  no  evil  when  we  sink  to  sleep  ; 

By  night  and  day  alike,  His  children  He  will  keep. 


OUR    WILLIAM,  11 'J 


OUR     WILLIAM. 

A  little  son — an  only  son — have  we  ; 

(God  bless  the  lad,  and  keep  him  night  and  day, 
And  lead  him  softly  o'er  this  stony  way  !) 

He  is  blue-eyed,  and  flaxen  hair  has  he, 

(Such,  long  ago,  mine  own  was  wont  to  be — 
And  people  say  he  much  resembles  me.) 

I've  never  heard  a  bird  or  runlet  sing 

So  sweetly  as  he  talks.     His  words  are  small 
Sweet  words — oh  !  how  deliciously  they  fall  ! — 

Much  like  the  sound  of  silver  bells  they  ring, 
And  fill  the  house  with  music.     Beauty  lies 

As  naturally  upon  his  cheek  as  bloom 

Upon  a  peach.     Like  morning  vapour,  flies 

Before  his  smile  my  mind's  infrequent  gloom. 


120  OUR    WILLIAM. 

A  jocund  child  is  lie,  and  full  of  fun : 

He  laughs  with  happy  heartiness  ;  and  he 
His  half-closed  eyelids  twinkles  roguishly, 

Till  from  their  lashes  tears  start  up  and  run. 

The  drops  are  bright  as  diamonds.     When  they  roll 

Adown  his  cheek,  they  seem  to  be  the  o'erflowing 
Of  the  deep  well  of  love  within  his  soul — 

The  human  tendernesses  of  his  nature  showing. 
'Tis  pleasant  to  look  on  him  while  he  sleeps : 

His  plump  and  chubby  arms,  and  delicate  fingers, — 
The  half-form'd  smile  that  round  his  red  lips  creeps ; 

The  intellectual  glow  that  faintly  lingers 

Upon  his  countenance,  as  if  he  talks  ■« 

With  some  bright  angel  on  his  nightly  walks. 

We  tremble  when  we  think  that  many  a  storm 
May  beat  upon  him  in  the  time  to  come, — 

That  his  now  beautiful  and  fragile  form 
May  bear  a  burden  sore  and  wearisome. 

Yet,  so  the  stain  of  guiltiness  and  shame 

Be  never  placed  upon  his  soul  and  name, — 
So  he  preserve  his  virtue  though  he  die, —  * 

And  to  his  God,  his  race,  his  country  prove 


OUR    WILLIAM.  121 

A  faithful  man,  whom  praise  nor  gold  can  buy, 
Nor  threats  of  vile,  designing  men  can  move, — 

We  ask  no  more.     We  trust  that  He  who  leads 
The  footsteps  of  the  feeble  lamb,  will  hold 
This  lamb  of  ours  in  mercy's  pasture-fold, 

Where  every  inmate  near  the  loving  Shepherd  feeds. 


I  1 


122  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


THE     CHILD     IS     LOST! 

"  0  kinsmen,  neighbours,  friends  !  our  child  is  lost : 

The  night  is  falling — help,  for  love  of  God  ! 

In  fruitless  search  the  city  streets  we've  trod, 
And  vainly  every  lane  and  alley  cross'd. 

The  mother's  heart  is  breaking — friends,  take  pity- 
Forth,  quickly  forth,  and  scour  the  darkening  city. 
Ring,  bellman  !  ring  !    Proclaim  to  kindly  ears, 

'  A  child  is  lost  P — a  tiny,  tottering  one, 
Whose  age  is  scarcely  reckon'd  yet  by  years — 

Whose  feet  but  little  time  have  learn'd  to  run — 
Whose  words  are  simple  words,  in  accent  broken  ; 

He  scarce  can  tell  his  name,  nor  where  he  dwells, 
Or  else  his  words  so  modestly  are  spoken 

That  strangers  cannot  understand  the  tale  he  tells.' 


THE    CHILD    IS    LOST.  123 

The  slow  and  solemn  clock  tolls  forth  eleven, 
And  many  a  wearied  seeker  homeward  speeds. 

They  bid  the  mourning  mother  trust  in  Heaven, 
And  on  her  couch  to  seek  the  rest  she  needs. 

"  Oh,  can  I  sleep  when  he  is  still  unfound — 

A  helpless  lamb  that's  wander' d  from  the  fold  ! — 
And  he  perhaps  is  hungry,  tired,  and  cold, 

Or  sleeps  to  die  upon  the  frozen  ground  ? 
How  can  I  rest,  when  I  perchance  shall  see 
No  more  the  child  whom  God  once  gave  to  me  ? 

Comfort,  kind  neighbours — leave  me  not  forlorn: 
Is  there  no  hope  ?     Is  life  henceforth  to  be 

Of  joy  and  peace  and  pleasant  memories  shorn  ? 
Pray  with  me,  friends,  in  mine  extremity." 

'Tis  midnight  now.     How  fearfully  the  hour 

Trembles  upon  the  calm  quiescent  air ! 

The  robber  leaves  his  dark  and  hidden  lair, 
To  snare  by  cunning,  or  prevail  by  power. 

The  world  has  closed  its  eyes  and  fallen  asleep; 
And  God  looks  down  from  His  eternal  throne 

And  shuts  the  eye  that  long  was  wont  to  weep, 
And  makes  the  wretched  feel  they're  not  alone. 


124  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

The  watchful  mother  hears  the  hurrying  tread 
Of  nimble  feet.     The  father  comes !     He  bears 

The  little  wanderer  in  his  arms, — his  head 
Reclining  on  his  shoulder,  free  from  cares 

And  fast  asleep  ! — Ah,  in  that  home  the  voice 

Of  joy  was  heard,  for  God  bade  them  rejoice. 


THE    NEWLY-COME.  125 


THE     NEWLY-COME. 

The  morning  of  the  day  that  bears  the  name 

Of  Erin's  famous  spiritual  daddy, 

(Call'd  variously  St.  Patrick,  Pat,  or  Paddy,) 
A  tiny  stranger  to  our  dwelling  came. 

Unknown,  unnamed,  without  a  mark  or  label, 
Save  those  which  Adam's  offspring  ever  wore, 
She  came  to  us  as  five  had  come  before, 

To  make  another  sitter  at  our  table. 
She  waited  not  the  word  of  invitation, 

But  crept  into  our  hearts  at  once,  and  took 

A  life-possession  of  a  little  nook 
Erst  fitted  up  for  her  inhabitation ; 
And  there  will  she  forevermore  abide, 

Let  joy  or  sorrow,  life  or  death  betide. 
IP 


126  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

'Twas  on  this  wise.     From  certain  premonitions, 

There  seem'd  to  me  hid  in  the  viewless  air 

A  mortal  cherub,  tangible  and  fair : 
And  every  day  gave  strength  to  my  suspicions. 

And  therefore  kept  I  watch  till  past  night's  mid, 
When  suddenly  I  fell  into  a  doze. 
My  heavy  eyelids  scarce  had  time  to  close, 

Before  I  heard  a  voice — I  surely  did ! 
And  lo  !  behold,  in  the  adjoining  room — 
In  life  and  tears — a  bud  just  come  in  bloom! 

Love's  gentle  dews  long,  long  on  her  descend — 
The  youngest,  tenderest  prattler  of  our  hearth  ; 

In  every  hour,  the  Highest  be  her  friend, 
And  life  immortal  spring  from  mortal  birth. 


LULLABY.  127 


LULLABY. 


FROM   THE   GERMAN. 


Baby  !  close  thy  sparkling  eyes, 

Softly  on  my  bosom  rest ; 
Sorrow  ne'er  shall  thee  surprise 
Sleeping  on  thy  mother's  breast — 
Thy  mother's  love  keeps  watch  o'er  thee— 
My  own  sweet  baby,  lullaby  ! 

Thy  unheeding  mind  can  know 

Naught  of  the  delight  I  feel 
When  thy  cheeks  with  pleasure  glow 
Or  thy  lips  a  smile  reveal : 
But  blissful  is  thy  smile  to  me — 
My  own  sweet  baby,  lullaby  ! 


128  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

Heavenly  blessings  fall  on  thee, 

Baby,  in  thy  quiet  sleep  ! 
Rest  from  pain  and  sorrow  free — 
Mother  still  her  watch  will  keep  ! 
Unbroken  thy  soft  slumbers  be — 
My  own  sweet  baby,  lullaby. 


THE    SICK    BARE.  129 


THE    SICK    BABE. 

Our  child  is  very  ill.     She  sigh'd  and  moan'd 

Through  all  the  night.     I  press'd  her  to  my  hreast 
And  sang  a  hymn  ;  but  still  she  found  no  rest ; 

And  while  she  wept  my  spirit  also  groan'd. 
The  house  was  still  as  when  one  lieth  dead. 

All  faint  and  sorrowful,  the  mother  slept, 

Exhausted  by  the  vigil  she  had  kept. 

I  held  the  babe,  and  paced  the  floor — my  tread 

Re-echoing  through  the  silent  house.  She  threw 
Her  trembling  arms  around  my  neck,  and  laid 
Her  burning  cheek  on  mine,  and  sweetly  said, 

In  broken  speech,  "  Dear  father,  I  love  you." 

In  agony  I  pray'd ;  and  when  the  morning  broke, 

She  sank  away  in  sleep.     'Twas  long  ere  she  awoke. 


130  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


THE  THOUGHTS  DWELL  WHERE 
THE  HEART  IS. 

My  mind  to-day  is  ever  homeward  turning ; 

Amid  the  cares  of  business,  every  thought 

With  an  intense  anxiety  is  fraught, 
And  homeward,  homeward  still,  my  heart  is  yearning. 

There,  wearily  a  loving  daughter  lies : 
By  day  the  fever-heat  prevents  her  rest ; 
By  night  the  cough  doth  rend  her  quivering  breast ; 

And  meekly  doth  she  bear  it  all.     The  sighs 
Of  our  sick  hearts  we  hide  from  her ;  for  she 
Appears  endued  with  quiet  constancy. 

I  would  not  speed  Time's  swiftly-moving  wings, 
Yet  how  impatiently  the  day's  decline 
My  soul  doth  long  for,  when  I  may  entwine 

My  arms  around  my  child,  and  soothe  her  sufferings. 


THR    DINNER    HOUR.  131 


THE    DINNER    HOUR. 

At  one  o'clock  I  set  aside  my  work, 

And  go  to  dinner.     One  whole  hour  is  mine 
To  frolic  with  the  children  and  to  dine. 

I  walk  the  pave  as  gravely  as  a  Turk, 
And  muse  in  quietness  along  the  way. 

My  dwelling  is,  perhaps,  about  a  mile, 

And  yet,  so  busy  is  my  mind  the  while, 

The  road  seems  short,  e'en  on  a  summer-day. 

My  children  oft  are  peeping  out  the  door 
To  see  me  turn  the  corner  of  the  street, 

And  their  bright  eyes  with  joy  are  brimming  o'er. — 
As  my  good  father  did,  before  we  eat 

We  seek  the  grace  of  Heaven,  and  then  partake 

The  food  that  God  provides  for  our  Redeemer's  sake. 


132  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

"  Did"  is  a  word  of  past  signification, 

A  sad  and  touching  word  when  used  to  tell 
Of  those  who've  pass'd  through  toil  and  tribulation 

To  reach  the  land  where  saints  and  angels  dwell. 
A  score  of  years  have  nearly  pass'd  away 

Since  I  was  seated  at  my  father's  table, — 
Since,  pallid,  cold,  and  still,  that  father  lay, 

And  our  sad  hearts  were  robed  in  funeral  sable. 
The  shaft  of  sorrow  pierced  our  mother's  bosom. 
She  pined  and  sigh'd.     The  summer's  fragrant  blossom 

Soon  also  bloom'd  upon  the  mother's  grave ; 
And  forth  into  the  world  the  children  went, 
And  God  watch'd  o'er  those  little  ones,  and  sent 

An  angel  with  them  charged  to  guide  and  save. 

(How  strangely  memory  leads  me  from  my  theme ! 
Thus  frequently  my  retrospective  mind 
Doth  cast  a  fond  and  "lingering  look  behind," 

Till  rude  reality  disturbs  the  dream. 

But  life  is  strange,  and  often  wide  extremes 
Are  nearer  kin  than  many  a  person  deems.) 

The  school-bell  rings.     The  children  rise  to  go; 
They  say  "Good-by  !"  and  gayly  trip  along. 


THE    DINNER    HOUR.  133 

My  hour  is  past;  (oh,  Time  !  why  not  more  slow?) 
The  risen  tide  of  sonnet  and  of  song 

Begins  to  ebb,  and  all  is  calm  again. 

I  haste  once  more  to  business  and  to  care, 
And  my  accustom'd  countenance  I  wear, 

And  I  become  a  man  like  most  of  other  men. 


12 


134 


DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


FATHER    IS    COMING. 

"  Hurrah  !  here  father  comes  !"  the  children  shout, 
While  standing  at  the  door  at  set  of  sun 
They  see  him  in  the  distance.     Down  they  run 

To  meet  him  coming.     Gathering  round  about 
His  weary  feet,  they  wildly  romp  and  race  ; 

One  hugs  his  knees — the  others  clasp  his  hands, 
While  tottering  Will,  for  want  of  better  place, 

With  glad  and  laughing  look  behind  him  stands 
And  grasps  his  outer  garment's  pendent  tail ; 
And  thus  their  weary  parent  they  assail : 

He  kneels,  and  Will  ascends  his  back,  and  throws 
His  arms  around  his  neck.     With  Ella,  sweet, 
And  Agnes,  in  his  arms — the  others  round  his  feet — 

Beneath  his  lovely  load,  the  father  homeward  goes. 


AFTER    TEA.  135 


AFTER    TEA. 

The  tastes  of  men  are  various  as  their  faces ; 

Some  toast  their  friends,  and  some  their  bread  and 
cheese ; 

I  like  to  toast  my  toes,  and  sit  at  ease 
Beside  my  wife,  in  our  accustom'd  places. 

Day  and  its  busier  duties  ended,  we 
Pursue  the  promptings  of  our  inclination, — 

I  with  a  pen  or  book  in  hand,  and  she 
Intent  on  some  maternal  avocation. 

Our  little  ones,  entranced  in  dreams  or  slumber, 
Lie  snugly  nestling  in  their  downy  beds, 

With  not  a  care  their  simple  hearts  to  cumber, 
With  not  a  grief  to  bow  their  gentle  heads, — 

(Save  when  in  waking  hour,  some  disappointment 

Afflicts  them  so,  they  seek  affection's  ointment.) 


13G  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

Our  puss  at  times  sits  cosily  a  purring, 

As  if  to  imitate  her  musing  master; 
At  other  times  she's  all  alive  and  stirring, 

And  runs  and  springs,  and  springs  and  runs  the  faster. 
No  common  cat  is  she ;  nor  will  she  stand 

An  idle  jest  or  trick,  but  shows  her  claws, 
And  leaves  her  mark  upon  the  hardy  hand 

That  dares  infringe  her  feline  rights  or  laws. 
She's  usually  quite  neat  in  her  apparel, 
Save  when  she  falls  into  the  charcoal  barrel: 

And  then,  poor  tabby !  mousingly  she  goes 
For  many  days,  from  kitchen  to  the  attic, 

Robed  in  a  dress  of  pepper-colour'd  clothes, 
And  mews  in  tones  pathetic  and  emphatic. 

The  north  wind  howls ;  but,  shelter'd,  safe,  and  warm, 

Howl  as  it  may,  we  feel  secure  from  danger : 
The  fire  burns  blue,  "  betokening  a  storm" — 

A  brand  falls  down,  "  precursor  of  a  stranger." 
My  thoughtful  mind  runs  o'er  the  track  of  years, 

When,  tongs  in  hand,  at  our  old  hearth  I  sat, 
And  poked  the  embers,  till  my  mother's  fears 

Broke  in  upon  the  usual  social  chat, 


AFTER    TEA.  137 

• 

"  You'll  fire  the  chimney,  son  !"     The  sparks  would  fly 
Like  little  lumps  of  lightning  up  the  flue, 

And  snap  and  crackle  as  they  soar'd  on  high, 
As  if  they  felt  some  pleasure  in  it  too  ! 

That  fire  is  out — that  hearth  is  cold — and  they 

Who  felt  its  pleasant  warmth  have  mostly  pass'd  away. 


12' 


138 


DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


THE    SLEEPING    WIFE. 

[re-avritten.] 

My  wife  !  how  calmly  sleepest  thou  ! 
A  perfect  peace  is  on  thy  brow : 
Thine  eyes  beneath  their  fringed  lid, 
Like  stars  behind  a  cloud,  are  hid ; 
Thy  voice  is  mute,  and  not  a  sound 
Disturbs  the  tranquil  air  around  ; 
I'll  watch,  and  mark  each  line  of  grace 
That  God  has  drawn  upon  thy  face. 

My  wife  !  thy  breath  is  low  and  soft; 
To  catch  its  sound  I  listen  oft ; 
The  lightest  leaf  of  Persian  rose 
Upon  thy  lips  might  find  repose; — 


THE    SLEEPING    WIFE.  139 

So  deep  thy  slumber,  that  I  press'd 
My  trembling  hand  upon  thy  breast, 
In  sudden  fear  that  envious  deatli 
Had  robb'd  thee,  sleeping,  of  thy  breath. 

My  wife  !  my  wife  !  thy  face  now  seems 
To  show  the  tenor  of  thy  dreams : — 
Methinks  thy  gentle  spirit  plays 
Amid  the  scenes  of  earlier  days ; 
Thy  thoughts,  perchance,  now  dwell  on  him 
Whom  most  thou  lov'st;  or  in  the  dim 
And  shadowy  future  strive  to  pry, 
With  woman's  curious,  earnest  eye. 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  my  dreaming  wife  ! 
Thou  livest  now  another  life, 
With  beings  fill'd,  of  fancy's  birth ; — 
I  will  not  call  thee  back  to  earth  : 
Sleep  on,  until  the  car  of  morn 
Above  the  eastern  hills  is  borne ; 
Then  thou  wilt  wake  again,  and  bless 
My  sight  with  living  loveliness. 


140  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


OUR    LITTLE    GARDEN. 

Within  the  crowded  city, 

Where  life  has  scarcely  room, 

I  have  a  little  garden 

Where  simple  flowers  bloom. 

There  grows  the  morning-glory, 
With  many  a  varied  hue  ; 

Its  flowers  are  pink  and  purple 
And  virgin-white  and  blue. 

The  four-o'clock  each  evening 

Unfolds  its  scented  cup  ; 
And  from  a  nook  the  violets 

With  diffidence  peep  up. 


OUR    LITTLE    GARDEN.  141 

The  marigold  and  rose-bush 

Have  each  a  fitting  place  ; 
And  there  the  yellow  jasmine 

Expands  with  modest  grace. 

The  blue-bell  and  geranium, 

The  beauteous  balsamine, 
The  pink,  the  lady's-slipper, 

The  tender  cypress  vine. 

The  brilliant-hued  nasturtion 

Is  climbing  up  the  wall ; 
And  there  the  tall  sunflower 

Looks  proudly  on  them  all. 

I  have  some  rarer  flowers  ; 

Of  those  I  will  not  tell, 
Though  I  find  many  reasons 

To  love  them  all  full  well. 

The  humbler  plants  are  dearer, 

And  give  me  deeper  joy; 
They  tell  me  of  my  mother, — 

And  when  I  was  a  boy. 


142  DOMESTIC    POEM?. 

She  loved  such  simple  flowers, 
And  tended  them  with  care ; 

These  many  years  in  Heaven, 
She  tends  the  flowers  there. 

And  we  now  teach  our  children 
To  love  such  flowers  too, — 

To  pattern  by  her  virtues, — 
As  she  once  did,  to  do. 

So,  when  they  have  no  mother, 
And  when  their  father's  fled, 

They'll  have  some  sure  memorials 
To  tell  them  of  the  dead ; 

Some  humble,  blooming  flower 
(Which  God  renews  each  year) 

To  bid  them  in  their  duty 
With  faith  to  persevere. 

When  they  to  cares  of  manhood 
And  womanhood  attain, 

The  lessons  flowers  teach  them 
They'll  find  are  not  in  vain. 


SISTER    LOUISE.  143 


SISTER    LOUISE. 

Louise  !  my  heart  is  very  sore  for  thee  ! 

My  sister — oh,  my  lovely  sister  dead  ! 
Thy  voice  no  more  shall  sweetly  sound  to  me, 
Mine  eyes  thy  pleasant  face  no  more  shall  see, 

Until  to  Heaven  my  soul  hath  also  fled. 

Louise  !  thy  husband  to  a  southern  clime 

With  happy  heart  his  precious  burden  bare ; 
There,  wife  and  mother,  thou  didst  bide  thy  time, 
Till  o'er  thine  early  bier  the  funeral  chime 

Proclaim'd  the  northern  flower  had  wilted  there. 

Louise !  they  say  thy  death  from  pain  was  free, 
And  still  and  gentle  as  the  setting  day  : 


144  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

The  grace  of  Heaven  caused  every  fear  to  flee,- 
To  weeping  friends  thou  spokest  pleasantly, 
"  I  shall  be  better  soon  !"  and  pass'd  away. 

Louise  !  I  thought  not,  when  I  press'd  to  thine 

My  lips,  that  single  kiss  the  last  should  be : 
Had  I  so  dreamt,  what  anguish  had  been  mine  !- 
Thy  parting  looks  I've  set  in  memory's  shrine, 
And  oh  !  my  heart  is  very  sore  for  thee  I 


MATRIMONY.  145 


MATRIMONY. 

I  hold  that  every  one  is  bound  to  carry 
In  full  effect  the  duties  of  this  life ; 

That  is,  that  man  in  proper  time  should  marry 
And  live  in  love  and  harmony  with  a  wife. 

If  now  and  then  a  woman  prove  a  shrew, 
'Tis  an  exception  to  the  general  rule : 
And  I  would  deem  him  either  knave  or  fool 

Who  says  that  woman  is  not  kind  and  true. 

There  may  be  men  who  ne'er  should  marry, — such 
As  have  a  heart  affection  cannot  touch ; 

But  he  who  bears  the  impress  of  a  man, 

And  has  a  bosom  fill'd  with  yearnings  human, 
Should  win  the  love  of  some  pure-hearted  woman, 

And  pop  the  question  to  her  bravely  as  he  can. 
13 


146  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

An  angel  always  dwells  beneath  the  roof 
Where,  in  her  virtue,  a  sweet  wife  fulfils 
Her  gentle  duties  ;  and  unnumber'd  ills 

From  that  love-guarded  precinct  keep  aloof. 

And  "he  who  finds  a  wife,"  'twas  said  of  old, 

"  Finds  something  good,"  and  so  I  always  hold. 
The  bachelor  is  a  nondescript — (I  beg 

His  pardon,  but  it's  true ;) — quite  out  of  place, 

He  seems  to  me,  among  our  loving  race ; 
Unfinish'd,  like  a  chair  that  lacks  a  leg, — 

A  knife  without  a  fork — a  book  unbound, — 
A  lonely  traveller  on  a  lonesome  way, 

Who,  faint  and  sad,  looks  wistfully  around, 

But  from  the  sun  of  love  receives  no  cheering  ray. 

If  this  be  so,  why  don't  he  go  and  marry  ? 

'Tis  autumn  now  ;  the  birds  long  since  have  pair'd  ; 

And  e'en  the  flowers  their  nuptial  time  have  shared ; 
Then  why  should  he  still  solitary  tarry  ? 

Were  I  a  bachelor,  I'm  sure  I'd  fall 
A  captive  to  some  maiden  of  our  land  ; 

I'd  scarce  know  how  to  choose  among  them  all ; 
Yet  in  our  day  a  single  heart  and  hand 


MATRIMONY.  147 

Are  all  the  law  allows ;  and  this  is  well. 
The  love  of  one  sweet  heart  on  one  bestow'd 

Is  full  enough  to  make  his  bosom  swell, 
And  teach  his  feet  to  leap  along  life's  road. — 

Ye  bachelors,  go — a  loving  helpmeet  take, 

And  send  around  your  compliments  and  cake. 


148  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


JUVENILE    REMINISCENCE. 

When  we  were  boys,  my  brother  Will  and  I, 
The  night  before,  were  wont  to  tie  together 
Our  largest  toe  at  two  ends  of  a  tether, 

To  wake  us  early  on  the  Fourth  o'  July. 

We  loved  the  dawning  light  of  Freedom's  time ; 
We  loved  to  hear  the  bells  at  daybreak  chime, — 

Those  hundred  bells,  that  o'er  Manhattan  sent 
Their  wild  and  mingling  clangour,  till  the  air 
Seem'd  charged  with  music  full  as  it  could  bear, 

And  joy's  vibrations  shook  the  firmament. 

Through  the  warm  night  I  guess  we  suffer'd  some  ; 

If  either  moved,  he  pull'd  the  tether'd  toe, 

And  many  a  sleepy,  simultaneous  "  Oh  !" 

From  our  unquiet  lTps  all  night  was  heard  to  come. 


A    DAY    WITH    THE    INFLUENZA.  149 


A    DAY    WITH    THE    INFLUENZA 

If  one  should  ask,  M  What  have  you  done  to-day  ?" 
As  brief  as  Caesar,  I'd  reply,  "  I've  sneezed." 
Ne'er  loving  swain  his  damsel's  fingers  squeezed 

(To  tell  the  tale  his  lips  refused  to  say) 
More  tenderly  than  I  my  stricken  nose. 

'Twere  vain  to  attempt  to  stand  upon  decorum, 

I  had  to  sneeze  behind  folks  and  before  'em. 
At  every  sneeze,  it  seem'd  that  ringing  blows 

Fell  on  my  head,  that  ached  wellnigh  to  frenzy  ; 
From  weeping  eyes  my  strength  appear'd  to  ooze, 
And  all  my  body  was  a  general  bruise : 

I  yielded  captive  to  the  influenza, 

And  I  went  home  at  dinner-time,  and  there 
Sought  help  in  medicine  and  my  rocking-chair. 
13* 


150  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

Much  like  the  custom  of  the  ancient  cities, 

My  nasal  gateways  closed  at  dusk  of  day, 
And  scarce  a  breath,  for  love's  sake  or  for  pity's, 

Got  in  or  out  by  the  accustomed  way  ; 
So  on  my  couch  I  lay  with  open  lips, 

To  let  the  air  into  the  cells  of  life. 
Instead  of  sleep,  a  dreamy-like  eclipse 

Came  over  me  ;  and  vagaries  were  rife 
Within  my  mind.     The  thread  of  dreaming  broke 
At  intervals,  and  startled  I  awoke ; 

I  turn'd  the  pillow  'neath  my  fever'd  head, 
And  gazed  awhile  upon  the  taper's  smoke ; 

And  when  a  sigh  of  suffering  softly  sped, 
A  tender  voice  to  me  in  tones  of  pity  spoke. 

A  day  thus  pass'd  is  not  a  day  misspent, 
If  it  but  teach  a  lesson — as  it  may — 
That  man  is  tenant  of  a  house  of  clay, 

Which  he  must  leave  whenever  word  is  sent. 
There's  nothing  here  to  grumble  at,  if  we 
The  why  and  wherefore  of  our  pains  could  see. 

As  our  good  pastor  said,  in  all  the  year 

There  are  more  days  of  sunshine  than  of  gloom. 


A    DAY    WITH    THE    INFLUENZA.  151 

More  joys  than  griefs  to  virtuous  men  appear ; 

And  round  the  path  of  every  mortal  bloom 
Sweet  flowers  of  love,  and  he  may  multiply 

The  generous  plant  by  gracious  words  and  deeds. 

He  reads  amiss  who  never  wisely  reads 
What  heavenly  mercies  in  our  sorrows  lie. 


152  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 


FROM    MY    PILLOW    TO    THE    EDITOR    OF 
THE    SATURDAY    GAZETTE. 

Dear  Mr.  Neal  : — Say,  did  you  ever  rise 

When  morning  came,  and  feel  as  if  you'd  slept 

Scarce  half  enough — but  still  your  habit  kept 
Of  early  rising  ?     Sunken  were  your  eyes  ? 

Your  head  as  light  as  though  the  brains  were  gone  ? 

Your  trembling  legs  too  weak  to  rest  upon  ? 
With  fever'd  skin,  and  tongue  encrusted  white  ? 

Your  neck  and  face  besieged  by  tender  lumps  ? 
If  so,  you  can  appreciate  the  plight 

Of  your  afflicted  friend — he's  got  the  mumps  ! 
The  doctor  tells  him  they  are  much  about, 

And  gives  him  medicine  and  the  grease  of  goose 

To  make  the  malady  its  grip  unloose  ; 
And  soon  he  hopes  to  turn  the  enemy  out. 


FROM    MY    PILLOW    TO    THE    EDITOR.  153 

Hear  with  him,  then,  if  in  his  hour  of  pain 
He  drops  his  lighter  rhyme,  and  in  his  breast 
He  makes  a  deeper,  purer,  holier  quest, 

And  brings  therefrom  a  tenderer,  gentler  strain. 
He  is,  in  truth,  a  sober-thoughted  one, 

And  pensive  in  his  ways,  as  other  folks, 
Although  at  times  he  loves  a  little  fun, 

When  pure  and  harmless  wit  the  jest  provokes. 
(Awhile  in  tears  we  see  an  April  day, 
The  laughing  sunshine  dries  its  tears  away ; 

When  clouds  of  sorrow  overspread  our  sky 
We  may  be  sure  there  still  is  light  behind  ; 

The  heavenly  gales  shall  sweep  the  vapours  by, 
And  purer  bliss  descend  upon  the  mind.) 

List,  gentle  sir  !  and  let  my  pillow  rhymes 
Fall  on  the  ear  like  Sabbath  morning  chimes  : 

"  Ah,  aching  head  ! — ah,  feeble,  fever'd  frame  ! — 
Come,  downy  pillow,  yield  me  kind  relief! — 

Sweet  wife  ! — thy  love's  more  dear  to  me  than  fame — 
Come,  sing  a  hymn  to  soothe  my  heavy  grief. 

Oh,  fan  my  brow — and  lay  thy  cooling  hand 


154  DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

Upon  my  forehead : — how  it  throbs  with  pain  ! — 

Ah,  love  !  how  kind  and  gentle  ! — press  that  vein 
With  thy  soft  finger: — there  ! — now  wipe  the  sweat 

That  gathers  on  my  face.     Water,  sweet  wife  ! 
Another  cup  of  cooling  water  yet ! 

Then  softly  place  my  head  again.     Now  kneel, 
And  let  us  pray — for  in  His  hand  is  life — 

And  in  our  time  of  wo,  His  grace  will  He  reveal." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


THE    REAPER'S    RETURN 

Along  the  meadows, 

After  the  day 

Has  pass'd  away, 
The  twilight  shadows 

Of  trees  and  posts, 

Like  silent  ghosts, 
Are  falling  faintly  : 

The  early  moon, 

Uprising  soon, 
With  aspect  saintly, 

Shines  on  the  edge 

Of  the  rocky  ledge, 
14 


158  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  glances  and  dallies 
With  snowy  beam 
Upon  the  stream  ; 

While  down  to  the  valleys 
The  darkness  flies, 
And  clouds  the  eyes 

Of  the  sickly  sleeper. 
His  labour  done 
At  set  of  sun, 

The  wearied  reaper, 

Stalwart  and  strong, 
Hastens  along 

To  his  peaceful  dwelling, 

While  thoughts  of  home 
In  his  bosom  come, 

Like  a  fountain  welling. 
He  treads  the  ground 
Where  once,  to  the  sound 

Of  the  trumpet's  braying, 
Armies  of  men 
On  hill  and  glen 

Were  wounding  and  slaying ; 
Where  the  brave  and  good 
Unflinching  stood 


the  reaper's  return.  159 

Iii  the  hour  of  danger, 

When  'gainst  the  cause 

Of  their  land  and  laws 
Came  Hessian  and  stranger. 

Now  peacefully  sleeping 

The  sod  below, 

Their  mortal  wo 
And  time  of  weeping 

Have  pass'd  away 

This  many  a  day. 
The  life-blood  creeping 

Through  gaping  wound 

Over  the  ground — 
The  verdure  steeping 

In  lakes  of  gore — 

Is  seen  no  more. 
There  winds  are  sweeping 

As  sweet  and  low- 
As  when  the}-  blow 
Where  flowers  are  peeping 

On  meadow-side 

At  evening-tide, 
When  June  is  keeping 


160  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

A  festival 
That  blesses  all, 

And  men  are  reaping 
A  harvest-yield 
From  nature's  field, 

And  hearts  are  leaping 

With  present  pleasure 
Surpassing  measure. 

The  field  of  battle, 

Where  men  have  died 
On  freedom's  side 

Amid  the  rattle 

And  roar  of  shot, 
Is  sure  the  spot 

WThere  love  will  linger: 

There  maids  will  stand 
With  lifted  hand, 

And  point  the  finger 
In  heartiest  mood 
Of  gratitude 

To  the  place  where  brother 
And  father  fell ; 
And  they  will  tell 

To  one  another 


THE  REAPER'S  RETURN.  161 

The  bitter  wrong 

That,  suffer'd  long, 
Led  wife  and  mother 

To  buckle  on 

The  sire  and  son 
The  sword  long  rusted, 

And  bid  them  go 

And  meet  the  foe, 
That  proudly  trusted 

To  smite  the  land 

With  blade  and  brand. 

To  God  be  glory  ! 

They  hush'd  the  boast 

Of  Britain's  host : 
And  song  and  story 

In  future  age 

Shall  fill  the  page 
Till  earth  is  hoary  ; 

And  in  the  breast 

Of  men  oppress'd — 
For  freedom  yearning — 

Our  num.?  and  tame 
14- 


162  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Shall  light  a  flame 

That,  fierce  and  burning, 
Shall  snap  the  cords 
Of  priests  and  lords  : 

Then,  meekly  learning 
In  Beth'lem's  school 
The  golden  rule, 

And  wisely  spurning 
The  bigot's  control 
Over  the  soul, 

Men,  heavenward  turning, 
Shall  seek  and  find 
Their  Maker's  mind ; 

Then  scenes  of  gladness, 
And  love,  and  mirth, 
From  heart  and  hearth 

Shall  banish  sadness, 
And  earth  shall  see 
A  jubilee. 

The  ravage  and  riot 
And  wrath  of  war 
Were  seen  no  more  ; 

And  comfort  and  quiet 


the  reaper's  return.  163 

In  heart  and  home 

Of  man  had  come  : — 
The  elders  older 

And  feebler  grew, 

Till  'neath  the  yew 
They  lay  to  moulder  : — 

The  children  then, 

Were  grown  to  men, 
And  on  their  shoulder 

The  locks  of  white 

Fell  thin  and  light : — 
The  share  of  the  plower 

Upturn'd  the  stones 

Mingled  with  bones  ; 
And  fruit  and  flower 

Fertilely  rose 

Where  mortal  foes 
Together  were  buried  : — 

The  sun  at  morn 

Shone  on  the  corn 
All  tassel'd  and  serried  : — 

The  tops  of  the  trees 

In  the  evening1  breeze 


164  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Were  waving  lightly  : — 
The  mocking-bird 
The  silence  stirr'd 

Sportively,  sprightly : — 
When,  after  threescore 
Of  years,  or  more, 

Light-hearted  and  cheery, 
The  reaper  trod 
Over  the  sod 

Where  groanings  dreary 
And  cries  of  fear 
Once  met  the  ear 

From  the  wounded  and  weary. 
He  lifts  his  eyes 
To  the  moonlit  skies, 

And  thoughtfully  ponders 
On  sacred  things 
The  stillness  brings 

To  him  as  he  wanders. 
To  the  land  above 
Friends  of  his  love 

Long  have  departed, 

But  faithful  he  bears 


the  reaper's  return.         165 

His  daily  cares, 
Strong  and  stout-hearted. 

A  man  is  he, 

Though  lowly  be 
His  human  condition  : 

Nor  will  he  bow 

With  servile  brow 
In  humble  petition 

To  scornful  pride 

That  turns  aside 
From  those  who  are  lowly ; 

Yet  meekly  he 

Doth  bend  the  knee 
To  his  Maker  holy. 

His  children  wait 

At  the  garden-gate, 
Till  the  skies  darken  ; 

And  far  in  the  dim, 

They  look  for  him, 
And  earnestly  hearken. 

In  a  glad  shout 

Their  lips  break  out ; 


160  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

They  cry  to  their  mother, 
"  See  !  father's  here  !" 
And  run  like  deer 

One  after  the  other : 

They  round  him  stand, 
And  grasp  his  hand, 

And  sister  and  brother 
Mid  general  din 
Usher  him  in. 


A  RE VERY.  167 


A  RE VERY  IN  AN  ANCIENT 
POTTE  R'S-FIELD. 

The  beautiful  park  in  Philadelphia  known  as  the  Washington 
Square  was  in  former  times  the  public  burial-place,  or  potter's- 
field.  I  have  been  told,  that  after  a  heavy  storm  of  rain,  bones 
were  sometimes  seen  protruding  from  the  ground. 


The  sultry  summer-day  was  past, 

I  sat  me  down  beneath 
A  sycamore,  the  cooling  winds 

Of  eventide  to  breathe. 

I  sat  me  down  in  silentness, 

Half-hidden  in  the  shade : 
My  thoughts  on  wondrous  mysteries  ran, 
The  birth,  and  life,  and  death  of  man, 

And  fancy  freely  plav'd. 


168  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  lovely  and  the  young  were  there, 

And  voices  sweet  and  clear 
As  sound  of  bells  o'er  waters  heard, 
The  air  of  early  evening  stirr'd, 
And  pleased  the  listening  ear. 

I  heeded  not  the  pleasant  tones, 

My  spirit  turn'd  away 
From  present  scenes  to  scenes  of  old, 

When,  'neath  this  very  clay, 
The  poor  and  friendless  sons  of  men 

In  strange  confusion  lay. 

Methought  the  graves  again  appear'd, 

Neglected,  as  of  old  ; 
The  bones  protruding  here  and  there, 
A  broken  tooth,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  pauper's  portion  told. 

"  This  dust  shall  live  again,"  I  said, 
"  Though  'tis  but  pauper  flesh  ; 
These  bleaching  bones  the  Word  of  God 
Shall  clothe  with  life  afresh." 


A    RKVERY.  161) 


Methought,  ere  to  this  gospel  truth 
My  lips  bare  utterance  gave, 

Lo  !  slowly  every  corpse  arose 
And  sat  upon  its  grave. 

My  hair  stood  up  in  utter  dread. 
And  horror  fill'd  my  breast; 

I  closed  mine  eyes,  but  still  the  sight 

Was  clear  to  me  as  noonday  light, 
And  to  my  side  there  press'd 

A  meek-eyed  being,  pure  and  bright, 
Who  thus  mine  ear  address'd  : — 

"  Fear  not,  O  lover  of  the  poor ; 
Mine  errand  is  to  thee  : 
Arise  and  walk,  and  wisely  mark 
This  wondrous  mystery." 

I  gazed  within  his  eye  of  peace : 

I  loved  him,  and  my  fears 
Departed  like  the  morning  mist 
When,  by  the  morning  sunbeam  kiss'd 

Unseen  it  disappears. 

15 


170  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

We  walk'd  together  solemnly 

Among  that  silent  throng : 
The  corpses  lifted  up  their  eyes, 
And  gazed  on  us  without  surprise, 

While  slow  we  paced  along. 

Each  corpse  upon  its  forehead  bore 

The  method  of  its  death  ; 
A  few  had  died  in  peaceful  hour, 
When  nature,  failing  in  her  power, 

Gave  mildly  up  her  breath. 

The  pestilence  had  garner'd  here 

A  multitude  of  slain, 
When  winds  of  doom  pass'd  o'er  the  land, 

And  men,  like  drops  of  rain, 
Fell  in  the  swollen  stream  of  death 

That  swept  the  human  plain. 

The  hand  of  hate  had  hurried  some 

To  judgment  and  the  dust; 
And  some  had  perish'd  'neath  the  smart 
Of  cruel  words,  that  eat  the  heart 

Like  canker  and   the  rust. 


A    RE VERY.  171 


The  meek-eyed  angel  was  my  guide  ; 

We  wander'd  round  and  round, 
And  ever  and  anon  we  stood 

Before  a  broken  mound 
Whereon  a  corpse  was  sitting,  who 

Had  risen  through  the  ground. 

Among  the  congregated  throng 
Nor  voice  nor  sound  was  heard  ; 

What  things  the  angel  said  to  me 

I  understood,  yet  audibly 
He  never  spake  a  word. 

We  halted  at  an  humble  spot 
Where  sat  a  wasted  form  ; 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  evening  light 
Of  Venus  after  storm. 

"  A  daughter  of  the  King  is  she ; 
Unknown  she  lived  on  earth  : 
Of  lowly  name  and  low  degree, 
She  had  a  royal  birth. 

"  They  laid  her  in  the  potter's-field  : 
But  little  boots  it  where 


172  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  loving  and  the  loved  of  Christ 
Their  dying  portion  share  ; 

They  safely  rest  in  earth  or  sea, 
If  He  be  with  them  there." 

Three  children  sported  on  a  grave, 
Two  sisters  and  a  brother ; 

An  old  man  and  his  daughter  sat 
Together  on  another  ; 

A  little  child  lay  also  on 
The  bosom  of  its  mother. 

The  suicide  was  there  :  he  bore 

Upon  his  forehead  plain 
A  deeper  furrow,  dug  by  guilt, 

Than  mark'd  the  brow  of  Cain  ; 
The  harden'd  gore  was  still  unwash'd 

That  issued  from  the  vein 
His  hand  had  sever'd  ;  and  his  breast 

Was  crimson  with  the  stain. 

The  drunkard  trembled  on  his  grave, 

The  travesty  of  man  : 
Two  of  his  sons  had  drunkards  died  ; 


A    REVERY.  173 

Another  for  his  life  was  tried — 
A  halter  was  its  span. 

I  saw  the  wife  and  mother  there ; 

Her  eye  shed  not  a  tear : 
Her  heart  in  life  by  them  was  rent, 

But  now  she  rested  here, 
Asleeping  till  the  final  day 

To  all  men  shall  appear, 
When  angels  shall  convey  her  up 

To  their  unweeping  sphere. 

A  rover  of  the  deep  was  there, 

His  comrades  by  his  side  : 
They'd  sped  their  way  to  India's  shore, 

And  gladly  homeward  hied : 
They  saw  again  their  native  land 

With  arms  outstretching  wide, 
When  fiercely  tempest-winds  did  sweep 
Across  their  path,  and  in  the  deep 

A  score  of  sailors  died  ; 
And  in  this  field  were  laid  the  few 

Relinquish'd  by  the  tide. 
15* 


174  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

The  living  dead  ! — the  living  dead  ! — 

I  shut  my  tearful  eyes, 
And  prayerfully  I  turn'd  my  face 

Unto  the  placid  skies. 

The  midnight  hour  toll'd  solemnly, 

And  lo  !  I  wept  alone  ; 
The  moon  shone  faintly  on  the  ground, 
And  katydids  were  chirping  round 

With  shrill  and  lively  tone ; 
And  o'er  my  head  the  gentle  breeze 
Was  whispering  softly  mid  the  trees, 

As  if  some  sprites  had  come 
Upon  the  boughs,  and  lightly  swung, 
And  holy  hymns  together  sung 

Of  their  immortal  home. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    LAND.  175 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    LAND    AND    ITS 
SENTRY    GRIM. 

There  is  a  land  immortal — 

The  beautiful  of  lands  ; 
Beside  its  ancient  portal 

A  sentry  grimly  stands. 
He  only  can  undo  it, 

And  open  wide  the  door ; 
And  mortals  who  pass  through  it 

Are  mortal  never  more. 

That  glorious  land  is  Heaven, 

And  Death  the  sentry  grim  : 
The  Lord  thereof  has  given 

The  opening  keys  to  him  ; 


176  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And  ransom'd  spirits,  sighing 

And  sorrowful  for  sin, 
Pass  through  the  gate  in  dying, 

And  freely  enter  in. 

Though  dark  and  drear  the  passage 

That  leadeth  to  the  gate, 
Yet  grace  attends  the  message 

To  souls  that  watch  and  wait ; 
And  at  the  time  appointed 

A  messenger  comes  down, 
And  guides  the  Lord's  anointed 

From  cross  to  glory's  crown. 

Their  sighs  are  lost  in  singing ; 

They're  blessed  in  their  tears  ; 
Their  journey  heavenward  winging, 

They  leave  on  earth  their  fears. 
Death  like  an  angel  seeming, 

"  We  welcome  thee  !"  they  cry: 
Their  face  with  glory  gleaming, 

'Tis  life  for  them  to  die. 


THE    HOWLING    STORM    AND    WONDROUS    CALM.      177 


THE    HOWLING    STORM    AND    THE 
WONDROUS    CALM. 

While  sailing  on  the  sea  of  life, 

I  saw  a  storm  arise ; 
The  waters  foam'd  and  met  in  strife, 

And  lightnings  rent  the  skies. 

My  fleet  and  fragile  bark  above 

The  tossing  billows  roll'd  ; 
My  utmost  store  of  hope  and  love 

Was  garner'd  in  its  hold. 

The  winds  blew  mightily,  and  swept 

My  fearless  vessel  on, 
While  misty  clouds  the  sky  o'ercrept 

Till  sun  and  stars  were  gone. 


178  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

My  heart  upheld  its  steadfastness, 
As  if  'twere  stone  or  steel ; 

The  deeper  horrors  of  distress 
'Twas  needful  I  should  feel. 

The  darkness  of  the  night  came  down 

And  on  my  soul  it  lay, 
As  if  my  righteous  Maker's  frown 

Were  gathering  round  my  way. 

The  darkness  cover'd  all  the  sky, 

And  cover'd  all  the  sea : 
I  madly  cast  the  compass  by, 

And  steer'd  uncertainly. 

My  bark  was  rack'd,  its  sails  were  rent- 

I  heard  the  rudder  break ; 
The  hungry  ocean  seem'd  intent 

My  life  itself  to  take. 

I  said,  "  Why  should  I  longer  strive  ?" 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
And  let  my  bark  at  random  drive 

Along  the  fearful  deep. 


THE    HOWLING    STORM    AND    WONDROUS    CALM.      179 

High  on  the  utmost  billow's  top 

'Twas  for  a  moment  seen, 
But  more  impetuously  to  drop 

Deep  in  the  gulf  between. 

As  lonely  as  if  I  alone 

In  all  the  earth  were  left, — 
As  helpless  as  an  infant-one 

Of  mother's  care  bereft, — 

How  swift  and  sure  had  been  my  doom 

Had  Christ  forgotten  me  ! 
A  voice  was  heard  amid  the  gloom, 

11  Thy  Saviour  loveth  thee  !" 

Immediately  there  was  a  calm, 

A  calm  without,  within : 
For  Jesus  wrote  upon  my  palm 

Full  pardon  of  my  sin. 

The  inward  tempests  rage  no  more, 

The  spirit's  sorrows  cease, 
"When  Jesus  stands  upon  the  shore, 

And  gently  whispers,  "  Peace  !" 


180  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    GOOD    DIE    EARLY." 

The  true-hearted  early 

('Tis  said)  pass  away; 
While  the  wicked  and  surly 

Grow  aged  and  gray. 

Methinks  'tis  a  story 

Not  founded  on  truth, 
And  the  ancient  and  hoary 

Were  wise  in  their  youth. 

When  a  brother  is  taken 

Away  from  our  door, 
Our  spirits  are  shaken — 

Our  bosoms  are  sore. 


THE    GOOD    DIE    EARLY.  181 

His  errors  are  hidden 

By  the  veil  of  our  grief; 
Old  doubtings  are  chidden 

To  a  loving  belief. 

His  virtues  shine  brightly 

From  the  sepulchre's  gloom, 
And  we  tread  soft  and  lightly 

By  the  sod  of  his  tomb. 

True,  angels  may  often 

Steal  dear  hearts  away, 
And  leavers  their  coffin 

And  spiritless  clay; 

Yet  all  are  not  'reft  us, 

And  still  we  may  find 
In  those  who  are  left  us 

A  sweet,  holy  mind. 

Thus  mem'ries  of  blossoms 

That  wither' d  in  spring, 
Wake  grief  in  our  bosoms, 

And  causelessly  sting ; 


16 


182  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

While  we  prize  not  our  treasure 
In  buds  that  remain, 

Nor  the  harvest  of  pleasure 
In  ripeness  we  gain. 

Then  let  us  be  loving 
To  those  who  are  here ; 

With  heartiness  proving 
Affection  sincere. 


ANOTHER    GONE.  183 


ANOTHER    GONE.* 

The  hasty  mail  hath  brought  me  heavy  news  ! 

A  friend  is  dead.     Of  distant  kin,  yet  very  near 

To  me  in  love  was  John.     The  tribute-tear 
Mine  eye,  that  seldom  weeps,  may  not  refuse ; 

For  I  shall  see  him  here  no  more,  and  we 
Perchance  shall  long  be  parted  from  each  other. 
The  love  between  us  was  the  love  of  brother. 

He  was  alone ;  nor  wife  nor  child  had  he, 

Yet  all  the  world  composed  his  family, 
For  he  had  love  for  all,  and  love  supreme 

To  God  his  Maker,  Saviour,  Comforter. 
My  brother-friend  !  his  death  oft  seems  to  me 
The  strong  delusion  of  a  morning  dream, 

And  makes  the  tenderest  strings  in  my  sad  bosom  stir. 

*  "  Died,  on  the  22d  of  July,  while  on  a  visit  to  Shrub  Oaks,  (West- 
chester County,  N.  Y.,)  Mr.  John  Mackellar,  Printer,  of  New  York,  in 
the  36th  year  of  his  age.  His  life  was  beautiful,  benevolent  and  holy  ;  and 
his  death  was  peaceful  and  blessed." 


184  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


EARLY  WED  — EARLY  DEAD. 

[Suggested  by  the  fate  of  a  sweet  girl  who  died  five  months  after 
her  marriage-day.] 

A  voice  of  laughter — a  voice  of  glee  ! 
Among  the  maidens,  who  happy  as  she  ? 
By  love's  enchantment  her  thrilling  breast 
Is  wildly,  witchingly,  over-blest : 
And  gushing  joys,  like  the  sun  in  May, 
Enliven  the  noon  of  her  bridal-day. 

A  voice  of  weeping — a  voice  of  wo  ! 
In  shroud  and  coffin  they  lay  her  low  : 
The  true  and  loving  and  youthful  wife 
Hath  pass'd  away  to  another  life  ; 
And  sorrow  falleth,  like  Winter's  gloom, 
On  him  who  weepeth  beside  her  tomb. 


EARLY  WED EARLY  DEAD.  185 

What  Heaven  hath  taken  is  lost  on  earth : 
A  new-made  angel,  of  mortal  birth, 
Is  led  with  hymns  to  that  world  of  bliss, 
Yet  sounds  of  mourning  are  heard  in  this. 
Fond  hearts  !  like  her  be  fitted  to  die, 
And  ye  shall  meet  her  again  on  high. 


16* 


186  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


WHY    ARE    YE    FEARFUL?" 

The  immortal  to  Heaven, 

The  mortal  to  earth  ! 
Let  each  be  re-given 

To  the  home  of  its  birth. 

The  infidel  lieth 

Who  rashly  avers, 
That  when  the  soul  flieth, 

Extinction  is  hers. 

The  mind  we  inherit 

Hath  God  for  its  sire ; 
The  breath  of  His  Spirit 

Can  never  expire. 


WHY    ARE    YE     FEARFEE.  187 

And  he  that  believeth 

Is  heir  to  a  throne 
The  Comforter  giveth 

To  children  alone. 

My  sorrowful  brother, 

I  lath  Heaven  from  thee 
Taken  one  and  another, 

Till  lonely  thou  be  ? 

Look  upward  and  onward 

Afar  in  the  skies  ; 
See,  bent  on  thee  downward, 

Angelical  eyes. 

They  bid  thee,  "  Come  hither  ! 

Our  sweet  brother,  come  !" 
In  thy  journey ings  thither, 

Thou  nearest  thy  home. 

Fond  spirit !  thy  pinions 

Prepare  for  thy  flight 
To  thy  Father's  dominions 

Of  love  and  delight. 


188  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Art  thou  become  tearful 
Because  of  the  gloom 

Beheld  by  the  fearful 
Who  look  in  the  tomb  ? 

What  though  the  dark  valley- 
Be  darker  than  night  ? 

Thy  faith  in  Him  rally, 
And  thou  shalt  have  light. 

A  day-spring  of  glory 
Shall  break  on  thy  ken, 

Unfabled  in  story, 
Unfancied  by  men. 


TO  WILL  AND  TO  DO.  189 


TO    WILL    AND    TO    DO    OF    HIS 
OWN    GOOD    PLEASURE." 

'Tis  well  for  me  that  God  should  be 
The  chooser  of  my  destiny  ; 
For  were  my  lot  placed  in  my  hand, 
Where  should  my  sure  salvation  stand  ? 

Beset  around  with  wily  snares, 
And  cumber'd  with  uncounted  cares, 
What  arm  but  thine  alone  can  hold 
My  soul  within  thy  saving  fold  ? 

The  things  of  sense  allure  mine  eyes, 
And  sudden  sins  my  soul  surprise ; 
Were  I  no  more  thy  grace  to  share, 
I'd  sink  and  die  in  lost  despair. 


190  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

I  know  that  I  am  safe  with  thee  ; 
Then  in  thy  hands  my  portion  be  ; 
I  cannot  fear  what  may  betide 
When  on  thy  power  my  hopes  abide. 

Let  sinless  ones  on  merit  stand, 

I  seek  for  mercy  at  thy  hand  ; 

No  other  way  of  help  I  see, 

Thy  grace  in  Christ  must  work  for  me. 

A  wretch  were  I  to  lean  upon 
The  works  my  erring  hands  have  done  ; 
I  stand  a  suppliant,  with  the  plea, 
Atoning  blood  was  shed  for  me. 

O  let  thy  mercy  day  by  day 
Uphold  my  spirit  in  the  way  ; 
Enough  for  me  that  thou  wilt  keep 
The  feeblest  of  thy  chosen  sheep. 


WIDOWED    AND    CHILDLESS.  191 


WIDOWED    AND    CHILDLESS.* 

When  Death  our  hearth  invaded, 

And  Mary  in  the  bloom 
Of  woman's  beauty  faded, 

My  heart  lay  in  her  tomb. 

She  left  a  little  daughter, 

To  cheer  my  sorrowing  heart ; 

I  loved  her  well,  and  taught  her 
What  love  could  e'er  impart. 

Most  desolate  ana1  lonely 

I  had  been  but  for  her ; 
For  she  and  memory  only 

Had  power  my  soul  to  stir. 

Love's  solitary  blossom, 
How  tenderly  I  kept ! 

*  Suggested  by  the  bereavements  of  a  dear  friend. 


192  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

She  lay  upon  my  bosom, 
And  on  my  bosom  slept. 

Light  as  a  flower-bird  humming, 
She  sprang  with  step  of  grace, 

When  at  eve  she  saw  me  coming, 
And  flew  to  my  embrace. 

In  pleasant  summer  weather, 
When  genial  rays  did  shine, 

We  walk'd  abroad  together, 
Her  fingers  clasp'd  in  mine. 

She  never  had  a  brother, 
To  set  her  love  upon  ; 

Too  young  to  know  her  mother, 
Her  heart  was  mine  alone. 

How  dearly — oh,  how  dearly 
I  held  that  gentle  heart ! 

For  her  sweet  sake,  I'd  cheerly 
With  gold  and  honours  part. 

Perchance,  before  my  Maker 
Mv  love  became  a  sin  ; 


WIDOWED    AND    CHILDLESS.  193 

It  seem'd  Him  good  to  take  her, 
And  heaven  received  her  in. 

Like  morning  starlight  failing 

When  dawns  the  early  day, 
Slow  paling — paling — paling, 

She  pass'd  from  earth  away. 

'Twas  whisper d  she  was  dying; 

I  said  it  could  not  be — 
In  doubt  and  fear  denying 

The  truth  they  told  to  me. 

Mine  arms  did  close  enfold  her : 

"  Father,  good-by  !"  she  said  ; 
Her  hands  grew  cold,  and  colder — 

My  child  was  surely  dead. 

My  loved  ones  both  are  sleeping 

In  yonder  verdant  sod  ; 
My  soul,  the  while,  is  weeping 

Beneath  the  smarting  rod  ; 
Yet,  trustful,  I  am  keeping 

My  way  to  them  and  God. 
17 


194  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


LET'S    SIT    DOWN    AND    TALK 
TOGETHER. 

Let's  sit  down  and  talk  together 

Of  the  things  of  olden  day, 
AVhen  we,  like  lambkins  loosed  from  tether, 

Gayly  tripp'd  along  the  way. 
Time  has  touch'd  us  both  with  lightness, 

Leaving  furrows  here  and  there, 
And  tinging  with  peculiar  brightness 

Silvery  threads  among  our  hair. 

Let's  sit  down  and  talk  together ; 

Many  years  away  have  past, 
And  fair  and  foul  has  been  the  weather 

Since  we  saw  each  other  last. 


let's  sit  down  and  talk  together.         195 

Many  whom  we  loved  are  living 

In  a  better  world  than  this  ; 
And  some  among-  ns  still  are  giving 

Toil  and  thought  for  present  bliss. 

Let's  sit  down  and  talk  together; 

Though  the  flowers  of  youth  are  dead, 
The  ferns  still  grow  among  the  heather, 

And  for  us  their  fragrance  shed. 
Life  has  thousand  blessings  in  it 

Even  for  the  aged  man  ; 
And  God  has  hid  in  every  minute 

Something  we  may  wisely  scan. 

Let's  sit  down  and  talk  together ; 

Boys  we  were, — we  now  are  men  ; 
We  meet  awhile,  but  know  not  whether 

We  shall  meet  to  talk  again. 
Parting  time  has  come:  how  fleetly 

Speed  the  moments  when  their  wings 
Are  fann'd  by  breathings  issuing  sweetly 

From  a  toninie  that  never  stinsrs  ! 


190  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO    THE    REV.    R.    W.    GRISWOLD. 

Unwearied  delver  in  the  mine  of  thought, 
Thou  siftest  golden  grains  from  native  ore  : — 
Explorer  of  a  scarcely-trodden  shore, 

With  priceless  gems  thy  mental  bark  is  fraught: — 
Thou  antiquary  of  the  world  of  lore, 

Thy  prying  hand  from  hidden  depths  has  brought 

The  rarest  works  thy  countrymen  have  wrought, 
And  bade  them  shine  in  hues  unknown  before. 

Thy  patient  toil  shall  wide  applause  command, 

And  men  to  thee  shall  lift  the  approving  hand. 

Yet  thou,  forgetting  not  the  vows  that  press 
On  thine  own  soul,  with  faithful  zeal  proclaim 
The  bliss  of  him  who  trusts  in  Jesus'  name ; 

And  thus  shalt  thou  at  once  man's  double  nature  bless. 


FANNY    FORESTER.  197 


FANNY    FORESTER. 

O  fair  and  fanciful  Fan  Forester ! 

I  wish  I  knew  her — honestly  I  do  ! 
A  brotherly  regard  have  I  for  her, 

She  is  so  natural,  sisterly,  and  true. 
There  is  no  cant  in  her — her  feelings  rise 

From  Nature's  fountain,  like  a  crystal  stream 

Upspringing  from  the  depths, — love's  sunny  beam 
Reflected  there, — and  glistening  in  our  eyes, 

As  if  pure  diamonds  over  beds  of  gold 

In  liquid  torrents  beautifully  roll'd. 
"Would  it  were  mine  to  leave  the  world's  confusion, 

And  live  in  love  in  some  hill-hidden  nook, 

Like  Fanny's  green,  romantic  Alderbrook, 
And  sing,  like  her,  life-long  in  my  seclusion. 
17* 


198  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    COMING    OF    SPRING. 

The  gentle  Spring  comes  knocking  at  the  door ; 

And  surly  Winter  gruffly  bids  her  wait ; 
Her  timorous  foot  she  places  on  the  floor, 

But  Winter  growls  and  shows  his  wrinkled  pate, 
And  she,  affrighted,  swiftly  flees  away. 
The  southern  winds  invite  her  steps  to  stay, 

And  she  returns  and  softly  knocks  again, 
And  nature  smiles  and  beckons  her  to  enter. 
Around  her  pathway  flowering  beauties  centre, 

And  pleasure  overfills  the  hearts  of  men. 
The  Spring  arrives  at  Summerhood  in  June, 

When  flowers  are  young  and  beautiful  and  bright, 
And  brooks  and  birds  emit  their  sweetest  tune, 

And  longest  is  the  day,  and  balmiest  is  the  night. 


MAY    1    COME    UP.'  199 


"MAY    I    COME    UP?" 

11  May  I  come  up  ?"  the  waking  germ  inquires  ; 

"  All  winter  long,  the  fearful  frost  has  bound 

Above  my  head  a  mass  of  icy  ground. 
I've  slept  in  silence,  till  the  solar  fires 

Have  driven  away  the  frost ;  the  soften'd  earth 

Invites  me  now  to  claim  the  right  of  birth. 
Oh  may  I  come,  and  see  day's  sunny  smile  ?" 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet.     'Tis  past  the  time  of  snow, 

But  frosts  may  come,  and  nipping  winds  may  blow. 
'Tis  safe  for  thee  to  bide  a  little  while 

Within  thy  cell :   ere  long  shalt  thou  arise 
And  God  thy  life  wilt  keep."     The  April  hours 

Soon  weeping  come,  with  warm  and  genial  skies ; 
The  germ  springs  up,  and  bears  a  crown  of  buds  and 
flowers. 


200  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


OUR    AUTUMN    WEATHER. 

The  peerless  bird  is  yet  unfledged  whose  quill 

Has  form'd  a  pen  to  write  in  numbers  fit 
Of  our  sweet  Indian  summer.     He  is  still 

Unborn  who  has  been  gifted  with  the  wit 
To  sing  its  glory,  loveliness,  and  worth. 
Our  land  becomes  the  paradise  of  earth, 

And  angels  cannot  then  be  far  away. 
The  wind,  like  love's  low  breathing,  moves  along, 
And  sighs  in  tones  surpassing  mortal  song. 

Such  spiritualness  gets  in  our  heavy  clay, 
Our  earth-born  souls  uplift  themselves :  we  see, 

We  hear,  we  feel,  we  breathe  the  beauty  in  ; 

A  holier  sense  comes  o'er  the  breast  of  sin, 
And  man  in  humbleness  adores  the  Deitv. 


OUR    AUTUMN    WEATHER.  201 

Autumn  is  life  in  sober  quietness  ; 

'Tis  manhood  full  of  strength  slow  growing  old  ; 

'Tis  womanhood  mature,  within  whose  fold 
Are  gather' d  stores  that  man  and  nature  bless. 

The  autumn  'minds  me  of  a  sire  whose  hair 
Is  beautifully  silvering  o'er — whose  eye 

Is  mild  with  love  :   There  stand  around  his  chair 
Right  noble  sons  and  daughters  fair ;  and  by 

His  side  the  wife — the  mother — sits,  beloved 

And  loving  all.     By  lapse  of  time  well  proved, 
Their  virtues  bide  rock-founded.     Holy  sight ! 

The  Indian  summer-time  of  human  life, — 

The  resting-hour  from  turmoil  and  from  strife — 
Before  the  spirit  takes  its  heaven-directed  flight. 


202  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    EARLY    ICE. 

The  ice  has  come  !     The  cold-lipp'd  Frost  has  kiss'd 
The  waters  while  they  slept  at  night ;  his  breath 
Has  fix'd  them  in  a  torpor,  as  of  death. 

Nor  shrub  nor  flower  the  midnight  ranger  miss'd, 
But  on  them  all  he  laid  his  fatal  fingers. 

He  touch'd  the  trees ;  and  when  the  sun  comes  forth 
And  warms  the  leaves,  they  fall  in  sudden  showers  ; 
The  change  from  frost  to  sunny  heat  o'erpowers 
The  feeble  health  that  in  them  faintly  lingers. 

The  blast  is  keen  this  morning  from  the  north  ; 

All  tender  things  are  dying  day  by  day  ; 

Soon,  soon  will  they  be  gone,  and  seen  no  more, 
And  we  shall  stand  on  nature's  wintry  shore, 

The  gentle  dreams  of  summer  having  pass'd  away. 


WHERE    IS    THE    APPLE-MAN  ?  203 


WHERE    IS    THE    APPLE-MAN? 

The  whereabouts — the  present  whereabouts — 

Of  that  old  man,  can  any  person  tell  ? 

The  tall,  spare,  gray  old  man,  who  used  to  sell 
Nuts,  cakes,  and  apples  near  the  park  ? — Some  doubts 

Have  I  if  he  be  still  alive ;  but  if  he  be, 

His  kindly  face  I'm  fain  again  to  see. 
A  pleasant  thing  to-  me  it  was  to  meet, 

As  day  by  day  I  pass'd,  his  smiling  look  : — 

(The  human  face  is  my  delightful  book, 
Wherein  I  read  while  walking  in  the  street.) 

Some  kindliness,  methougbt,  was  garner'd  up 
AVithin  his  heart :   though  he  was  poor  and  old, 

Yet  sure  am  I  his  hand  would  ne'er  withhold 
From  misery's  lip,  love's  rich,  refreshing  cup. 


204  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

There  patiently  he  stood,  from  early  morn 

Till  watchman's  call  at  night,  beside  the  corner 
Of  Sixth  and  Walnut — (keep  your  little  scorn 

And  pitying  laugh  within  your  bosom,  scorner — 
I  write  of  things  beyond  your  heart  and  head) — 

There,  doling  out  for  pence  his  sugar'd  ware, 

His  little  gains  from  children  in  the  square 
Sufficed  to  find  him  in  his  daily  bread. 

I  never  learn'd  the  old  man's  history, 
Nor  whence  he  came,  nor  whither  he  has  gone : 

'Tis  my  belief  no  living  kin  had  he, 
But  lonely  in  this  world  he  plodded  on. 

Well !  if  from  earth  he  has  pass'd  silently, 

I  give  this  tribute  to  his  memory. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    CITY.  205 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    CITY. 

Written  after  a  New- Year's  visit  to  the  Farm  School  of  New  York. 

Ye  children  of  the  city — 

Ye  poor  and  hapless  born — 
Ye  pensioners  of  pity, 

Once  destitute  and  lorn;  — 

Ye  babes,  whose  natural  keepers 

Forgot  your  heavenly  claim, 
And  left  ye  little  weepers 

And  heritors  of  shame  ; — 

Why  kindle  now  your  faces — 

Why  glisten  in  your  eyes 
The  glad  and  sparkling  graces 
Wherein  true  beauty  lies  ? 
18 


206  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

A  blooming  youthful  army, 
Nine  hundred  strong  ye  stand, 

With  not  a  foe  to  harm  ye 
In  all  this  blessed  land  ! 

Your  voices  join  in  singing — 
Sweet  childhood's  fit  employ  ; 

Ye  welcome  Leonard  bringing 
Your  annual  gift  of  joy. 

Glad  voices  on  him  calling, 
He  stands  a  father  there ; 

And  tear-drops  freely  falling 
Evince  his  love  and  care. 

Though  glorious  is  the  city 
In  works  of  nobleness, 

More  glorious  is  her  pity 
To  babes  in  sore  distress. 

It  crowns  New  York  with  honour, 
And  down  through  coming  years 

Shall  richly  fall  upon  her 
Renown  educed  from  tears. 


THE    DOOM    OF    THE    PRINTER.  207 


THE    DOOM    OF    THE    PRINTER 

A  printer  weary  and  wan, 

His  face  all  mortally  pale, 
As  he  slowly  plodded  his  homeward  way 
Before  the  dawning  of  early  day, 

Broke  out  in  a  bitter  wail. 

His  voice  was  husky  and  low, 
As  though  his  lungs  were  gone  ; 
And  he  cough'd  and  gasp'd,  and  cough'd  again, 
And  he  press'd  his  hand  to  his  breast  in  pain, 
While  thus  his  plaint  ran  on  : 

"  A  world  of  toil  is  this  ! 

It  hath  no  joy  for  me  : 
'Tis  labour  by  day,  and  labour  by  night, 
By  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  by  candle-light — 

Labour  continually. 


208  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  Some  men  have  a  day  of  rest, 

But  Sabbath  for  me  is  not: 
It  is  toil  all  the  week,  and  toil  on  the  day 
That  God  has  given  to  rest  and  to  pray — 

Lo  !  this  is  the  printer's  lot ! 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,"  he  said, 
"  I  play'd  on  the  hills  of  green ; 
I  swam  in  the  stream — I  fish'd  in  the  brook — 
And  blessed  was  I  to  sit  and  to  look 
Unfetter'd  on  nature's  scene. 

"  For  twenty  sad  years  and  more, 

My  life  has  worn  away 
In  murky  rooms  of  poisonous  air, 
When  I've  yearn'd  for  a  sight  of  the  valleys  fair 

And  the  light  of  open  day. 

"  An  innocent  prisoner  doom'd, 

My  heart  is  heavy  within ; 
Oh  why  should  a  man  untainted  by  guilt, 
Who  the  blood  of  a  creature  never  hath  spilt, 

Be  pent,  like  a  felon,  for  sin  ?" 


THE  DOOM  OF  THE  PRINTER.  209 

The  printer  then  cough'd  and  sigh'd — 

The  stars  were  growing  dim, 
And  he  upward  glanced  at  the  morning  sky. 
And  he  inly  thought  it  were  good  to  die, 

And  death  would  be  rest  to  him. 

His  heart  was  tired  of  beating  ; 
He  pray'd  to  the  Lord  above 
To  pity  a  man  whose  heart  had  been  riven 
By  toil,  for  other  men's  interest  given, — 

And  he  sought  His  mercy  and  love. 

He  hied  to  his  humble  home  : 
His  infant  awoke  to  cry, 
"  Oh,  father  !  oh,  mother  !  I'm  hungry  for  bread  !" 
And  the  printer  bow'd,  with  an  aching  head, 
On  his  Mary's  bosom  to  die. 

Oh  ye  who  have  never  known 
The  richness  found  in  a  crust 
When  nothing  is  seen  on  the  desolate  shelf, 
And  the  poor  man's  pocket  is  empty  of  pelf, — 
Receive  my  story  on  trust. 
18* 


210  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Say  not  in  your  careless  scorn, 

What  boots  the  tale  to  you  ? 
The  rhymer  who  traces  these  rough-written  rhymes, 
Has  known  of  such  sufferers  in.  other-day  times, 

And  much  of  his  rhyme  is  true. 

Remember  this  holy  truth, — 

The  man  who  aloof  hath  stood 
When  a  heart-broken  brother  for  succour  did  crave, 
And  he  stretch'd  not  a  finger  to  bless  and  to  save, 

Is  verily  guilty  of  blood  ! 


THE     PRINTERS    SABBATH.  211 


THE    PRINTER'S    SABBATH. 

"  I'm  going  home  to  rest,"  the  printer  said, 

"  For  I  am  faint  and  weary."     Forth  he  went 

Into  the  open  air.     The  firmament 
Was  full  of  stars  ;  and  down  upon  his  head 

The  moonbeams  faintly  fell.     'Twas  Sabbath  night, 
Just  verging  into  morn.     The  day  had  been 
His  day  of  toil.     Was  his  alone  the  sin  ? 

The  merchant,  on  the  Monday  morning  bright, 
Before  he  pray'd  took  up  the  new  gazette, 
(Which  as  it  were  with  human  tears  was  wet,) 

And  conn'd  its  columns  o'er  with  eager  scan  ; 
But  naught  reck'd  he  the  price  that  sheet  had  cost, — 
That  life,  and  hope,  and  soul  perchance  were  lost, 

The  Sabbath  scorn'd,  and  wo  entail'd  on  man  ! 


212  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    EDITOR     SAT    IN     HIS 
SANCTUM. 

The  editor  sat  in  his  sanctum, 

In  a  hapless  plight  was  he  ; 
Fain  would  he  fall  in  a  thinking  fit, 
For  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  wit 

As  to  what  his  leader  should  be. 

He  had  reap'd  his  brain  so  often, 

The  soil  seem'd  barren  grown  ; 
The  forest  of  wit  was  fell'd  to  the  stump, 
The  flowers  of  fancy  were  gone,  save  a  clump 

Where  the  seed  had  lately  been  sown. 


THE    EDITOR    SAT    IN    HIS    SANCTUM.  213 

He  fish'd  in  the  river  of  knowledge, 

But  his  angling-line  was  short: 
"  Surely  there's  plenty  of  fish  in  the  sea, 
But  'tis  as  plain  as  a  herring,"  quoth  he, 

"  In  deeper  waters  they're  caught." 

He  dived  to  the  bed  of  his  ocean, 

Where  the  pearls  did  erst  abound  ; 
He  raked  and  sifted  the  briny  mud 
That  lies  below  the  emerald  flood, 

But  not  an  oyster  he  found. 

"  Ah,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  he  murmur'd  : 

"  The  fellow  will  here  be  soon  : 
Methinks  his  tones  on  my  ear-drum  stir, 
1  The  men  are  all  waiting  for  copy,  sir, 

And  now  it  is  after  noon.' 

"  It  hath  been  quoted  often, 

With  a  full  meed  of  credit, 
The  maxim  Witherspoon  spake  in  his  day, 
1  Never  to  speak  till  you've  something  to  say, 

And  stop  when  you  have  said  it.' 


214  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  Ah,  good  advice  to  a  parson," 

He  sadly  went  on  to  say  ; 
"  But  I  would  ask,  who  ever  said  it,  or 
Hinted  such  thing  to  a  brain-tired  editor, 

From  his  birth  to  his  dying-day  ?" 

He  rose  in  his  mental  anguish, 

And  turn'd  the  key  in  his  door ; 
The  messenger  came,  and  loudly  did  knock, 
But  the  editor  sat  as  still  as  a  stock, 
And  the  imp  then  knocked  the  more. 

The  editor  leaned  on  his  patience 

As  on  a  cushion'd  chair ; 
And  he  sat  him  down,  and  he  rock'd  away, 
While  fancies  began  in  his  mind  to  play, 

And  thoughts  to  nestle  there. 

He  neither  swore  nor  cursed, 

He  hated  a  word  profane ; 
(Ah,  verily,  he  who  curses  and  swears 
But  adds  to  his  sins  and  adds  to  his  cares — 

And  the  vice  is  mean  and  vain.) 


THE    EDITOR    SAT    IN    HIS    SANCTUM.  215 

The  editor  and  the  devil 

Maintain'd  the  battle  and  strife  ; 
For  the  inky  imp  kept  sturdily  knocking, 
And  the  editor  kept  incessantly  rocking 

And  thinking  as  for  his  life. 

His  fancies  came  like  a  morning 

In  the  beautiful  time  of  May; 
And  thoughts,  like  the  rays  of  light,  shot  out, 
And  tremblingly  glimmer' d  and  twinkled  about. 

Till  his  mind  was  as  clear  as  day. 

The  imp  was  drumming  and  drumming 

A  rat-a-tat  on  the  door ; 
The  editor  cared  not  a  whit  for  his  thumps, 
But  quietly  finger'd  his  ideal  bumps, 

Till  the  flood  began  to  pour 

Down  to  the  tip  of  his  fingers, 

When  he  caught  the  paper  and  pen, 
And  beautiful  things  from  the  bodiless  air 
Were  call'd  into  being,  and  written  down  there, 

A  blessing  to  true-hearted  men. 


216  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Truth  shone  on  the  face  of  the  paper, 

And  the  editor's  heart  was  light: 
For  noble  the  man  among  noble  men, 
Who  fears  not  to  ply  a  truth-telling  pen 

For  God  and  for  human  right. 

He  sprang  to  the  door  of  his  sanctum, 

As  swift  as  a  Grecian  winner 
When  reaching  the  goal  in  Olympian  race, 
And  the  copy  he  push'd  in  the  messenger's  face, 

And  thankfully  went  to  his  dinner. 


THE    END. 


